Promise of the Last Kiss
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: The years of innocence have faded, leaving a woman, not a child, in its wake. The desire to accept the inevitable advent of adulthood approaches, and she, upon her wedding day, considers before a fatal twist of destiny comes by the grave turn of a Hook.
1. Prologue: A Promise Made In Which

Disclaimer: I do not own _Peter Pan_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners.

Summary: The years of innocence have faded, leaving a woman, not a child, in its wake. The desire to accept the inevitable advent of adulthood approaches, and she, upon her wedding day, considers before a fatal twist of destiny comes by the grave turn of a Hook.

Promise of the Last Kiss

Prologue

_The hook struck true as it punctured the leather-worn armour that had greedily encased it within its gilded confines of victory. It remained inert after its initial thrust, if only for a passing moment of dread, but then continued its proposed pursuit, the curved silver casing moving ever so gracefully across the massive cavity of scales and ivory tissue. A brilliant shard of pain followed in its dark descent to freedom, the deep cast of a perfect crimson once more tainting the fathomless waves of the unchanging sea._

_A shroud of abject silence fell to the crashing upsurge when the crocodile, whose timeless ticking was put asunder by the wisdom of an ingenious child, cried out into the lurid depths of the black sea, its golden gaze now dimming as its victim moved to escape the dark prison from within. _It was a pity_, it mutely thought, _that such a delightful morsel would finally destroy its eternal disciple by the mere turn of a hook. _It silently cursed the name of the one who dared to defy the ever-auspicious hand of Fate. For such feigned audacity was to court disaster. It considered this, and then emitted a low, condescending growl, feeling the dulled blade sever through its tattered flesh as all thought, all sense of life faded into the welcoming arms of oblivion. _

_The crocodile, without word or deed of its godlike machinations, released its prisoner without regret as its ultimate triumph lay within the fact of rendering the sanity of a man who craved the precious freedom he so desired. He would be forever changed after this moment, and would thus be driven to an everlasting madness since death would now forsake him. The reptile grinned, its crocodile tears showing only sympathy for its victim, as no one else, living or dead, would._

_It then liberated its unborn son to the world beyond its gutted remains, and thus bestowed life to the broken captain once more. Its part in this man's tragedy was over, as the fatal tear of its insides bespoke the end—and also beginning—of many things…_

…

A cry, filled with both the pain and misery of the world, rose from the murky depths of its watery grave, ascending into the darkened skies as the soul of one presumed dead escaped Hell and death only to breathe as a man once more. This man, whose body was now stripped of its former radiance, rocked madly against the waves like a string-less puppet. And as such, allowed himself to be taken by the taciturn current, his pitiful form succumbing to its unspoken mercy.

He thus drifted into the dimming twilight hours of eternity, his immobile form rendered helpless by the searing, blinding pain of the turbulent waves. He felt the numbness that came before death—the bitter acceptance of Fate's cruel irony. He would die, not from the crocodile, but from the sea he knew so well. The waters of the Neverland would be his final resting place as nothing else, no testament that bespoke of his foul deeds, nor epitaph heralding his demise, would remain after this fatal moment. And thus, he gave in to the chaotic despair and tragedy of his misfortune as he vaguely felt his beleaguered form collide against the island's pale, moonlit shores. He closed his eyes, the fleeting sensation of relief overcoming the poisoned disenchantment of suffering defeat. His mind then fell away from the shattered hopes and broken dreams of reality as all else diminished from his fading sight…

He fell then, his bloodied soul dissipating into a world beyond space and time, a world where only those who have passed on dwelt. And so he conceded, his mind giving over to the torrent of memories that came after the fall. But even in the shadow of death, he dreamed, his eyes, which were now coloured with the darkest of all sorrow, looked to the starless heavens above. He closed them then, feeling only profound dejection subdue the minute relief of living. Pain racked through him once more, and he felt the coldness of the world transcend and overshadow his broken body. His head turned away from the heavens, the misery of being abandoned forcing him to long for what could never be, for the stars had cursed him long ago, as their glorious light departed from his presence, and thus leaving him to the darkening abyss of his own despair.

Nevertheless, time, in its perpetual consistency, had passed before him. But whether it had been days, hours, or merely seconds caught in a brief moment of uncertainty, he did not know. The only legitimate thought that lingered in his tattered mind was that he lived, despite his soul's inherent cry that he not. Hell and damnation would be a release next to this pitiful existence. The cold acknowledgement of it almost made him weep with the bitter tears of self-pity. But he stilled them before they could fall and reveal their treachery. In spite of being broken and scarred, the remaining pride that—which he had been first subjected to in his youth so long ago—was instilled within him would not allow him to. He faintly smiled. It would indeed be bad form to cry over his losses, like some misbegotten child.

The darkness of his ruminations seemed to force him out of his transitory state of despair, as he willed himself to move. He inwardly flinched at the pain that now riveted through his pitiful form, the absent hook—which the damnable beast still obtained in its tattered flesh—left the pale monstrosity of his severed hand for all to see. He vaguely considered it, noticing the uneven end that still ached with the loss of the cold metal's security, as the obscure memory of the one who relieved him of it burned within his aching mind. And upon this mordant reflection, he cursed the eternal child for such guiltless cruelty.

But despite this, he could no longer focus upon his immortal adversary as the gloom of his unending torture clouded the edge of his remaining sanity. He felt the shadows overcome him, the sea water no longer burning the torn flesh of his arm. He dismissed the aching appendage that had, despite the layer of skin missing from it, remained intact. Perhaps there would be no need for another amputation. That was, if he survived.

He instantly frowned at the morose thought. Death would indeed be a mercy next to existing in this eternal hell. The years of isolation in this flawless wasteland of despair had all but rendered the fragment of remaining hope that he might somehow escape and return to the land of his forbearers. He inwardly smirked at the irony of it; the desire to abandon one hell for another seemed…paradoxical to his given nature of a gentleman pirate. Indeed, it seemed almost sacrilegious to consider such inherent blasphemy. And yet, it was what he wanted.

To depart from a land of make-believe where faeries, savages, and most of all, children, resided only to torment him would be a blessing. He had suffered from their petty cruelties long enough, as the will to survive overcame any irrational notion of submitting to death. He would not do so, not when the pain of living forced him to endure the probability of retribution. And he would have it. Dear God, he would reap his vengeance upon each little head who dared to curse him. And where no children could love him before his _death_, there would be no one to possess that hollow emotion upon his return.

No. No one would _ever_ come to love him, for he had no desire to be loved. The hatred that tainted any wish of that long forgotten sentiment stirred profoundly in his veins. His chest ached grievously where his enemy had felled him. He then glanced at his wounded arm, almost flinching at the strange dark colour of blood that coated it. The brazen stain was almost as dark as obsidian, its potent taste a bittersweet poison to those who dared to imbibe in its metallic flavour. _The blood of an ancient legacy_, he absently thought. It was truly a pity that he could not live up to the expectations of those who decided his fate. However, affairs beyond his control would not allow him to.

Perhaps under different circumstances, would he have completed his duty to those who expected more of him. But would it have made any difference in his life, he quietly asked himself. Would his duty—for that was truly what he had been destined for—been enough to give him to contentment that every man yearned for before death? He had no answer, but inwardly knew that he could never be content with anything. The ever-gaping void left within his black heart widened with each passing day. And it would do so until it was filled to the brim with something that could quench its longing for completion.

But what it was, that could restore his embittered soul and make him whole once more, he did not know. Only the faint reminder of a whisper gave him any inclination as to what it was. And much like the griffin's riddle, he could only presume its enigmatic answer.

A weakened sigh escaped him then, his dignity forgotten as his inborn pride faded into the darkened strands of night. He cast a brief glance towards the opaque moon and secretly admired its opulent splendour from afar. Distantly he felt the pale light move against his weathered flesh, the torn remnants of his left arm basking in its gentle lunar radiance. He considered it in silence, as a strange, and yet wonderful, sensation coursed through the gaping wound like a river undone, the intricate network of nerves and tissue coming to life and restoring the broken flesh.

The odd sensation in his arm left him utterly baffled, for never before had he felt such power emanate from a wound. In all actuality, he was almost frightened by its implications. For what dark sorcery had the beast imparted on him when he gutted it? He dimly realised that his freedom had not come without a price. But was he willing to accept the cost of such liberation? He could find no answer.

However, in spite of these ill-foreboding musings, he set his reservations aside as he thought upon his pitiful existence once more. In truth, he had nothing left of his former life. The few, meagre possessions he owned, his now-disbanded crew, even the tattered clothing he now wore were gone, lost forever to a child and his cruel games of make-believe. _The boy had yet to consider the lives he had inadvertently ruined this night, as well as many other countless nights_, the pirate abjectly thought, frowning abstractly. No, the eternal boy who embellished childhood in all of its magnanimous grandeur would never see, never understand the pain and loss he had left others to helplessly drown in. Dear God, the child believed it to be nothing more than a splendid game where he, the hero, would rescue his captive friends from the villainous clutches of one he dared wrong decades before.

The captain inwardly shuddered at the memory of it. The loss of his hand had been painful, if not excruciating in the unending torture it elicited even now. Oh, yes, he still felt pain in the pitiful stump that now bore the claw. The brutal sensations that shot through his arm at times seared every fragment of reason as the madness overcame all traces of his remaining sanity. The many bottles of rum and liquor had done little to suppress the raw agony he endured; the wretched repercussions it left forever tormenting him, like that damned crocodile, which now lay in its cold grave at the bottom of the sea.

He silently considered his fallen adversary, recalling the dull groan it drew out into the darkened waters, before it descended into the idle depths of oblivion. Yet instead of feeling contentment of felling such a strange and almost preternatural creature, he felt only a shallow sense of victory, one in which the long-awaited elation of its end had become nothing more than a false illusion. In truth, he almost felt pity for the beast whose only desire was to claim the man who tantalised it so many years before. The constant ticking would echo no more in the hollows of his mind, the nightmare of its deadly chime ceasing at the final, fatal stroke of its own demise.

Nevertheless, he did not fault the crocodile for his handicap. That privilege belonged solely to Pan, the eternal child, whose childlike ignorance was matched only by his wilful malevolence. The petty desire to have so-called adventures, despite causing consequential pain for others, had all but rendered his decadent nature, which ironically held the balance of all things in the Neverland. This child, this foreboding entity of malice, was the link, the ultimate key to the mystery of a world that refused to release any from its hidden constraints. There would be no escape, he dully realised. His eternal punishment would be to remain here and make atonement for his sins.

_And there were many_, he aptly noted. Oh, yes, his past transgressions were countless, as were many of hapless lives lost by his own, brutal hand. He could not remember how many he had sent to their doom, only the endless melancholy remained after the murderous rage, which had long since dissipated into the gathering darkness that forever encompassed him. And much to his dismay, he could, at times, hear the mournful cries of each wailing their dejected sorrows in his sleep. It was why he did not dream, for he feared the final condemnation of his bloodstained soul, a vengeful God coming for him at last.

And _He_ had. The God of his forefathers had come with a terrible vengeance. For to be consumed by his eternal fear, was the worst of all punishments, the imprisonment of his soul not lacking in the utter torment and shame of it all. He would never be the same after this night, not when the desire to live collided madly against his will. And he would live, he vowed. He would survive this, as he had escaped from such a prominent figure as Death before. And then he would have his revenge.

The very thought of seeing the boy suffer under the slings and arrows of his misfortunate end brought a smile to the captain's grim face. Hence, Peter Pan would finally come to understand what sadness truly was, as he would know pain and all of the marvellous joys derived from it.

A brilliant stroke of insane laughter engulfed the captain's soul, the darkness imbued from it echoing into the silent night. It would indeed be a pleasure to shatter his nemesis, not by the permanence of death, but by the ill-forgotten truth of something both he and Pan knew all too well: the idle prospect of growing up. The mild consideration of it was far too tempting to set aside, as death would be a mercy compared to the harsh realisation of the one thing that would be the boy's truest end; he would then live, each day, knowing that he could never retain the simple innocence he once had, as he would always remain in a childlike state forever.

The vengeance exacted would be in another form, however, the captain silently thought. For whereas Pan would continue on with his childish charade, others—the Lost Boys and all other children of the world and beyond—would eventually forget their simple whims of imagination and become the most dreaded of all figures: adults.

It was a tragic truth, he realised, but one all the same. Each of Pan's confidants would lose his baby teeth and tangled mass of hair and replace them with that of the qualities of a true gentleman. They would forget their meagre existence here, passing it off as nothing more than a child's idyllic fancy that lay strictly on the edge of dreams. Even those who accompanied Pan, albeit briefly, would, without question, forget, as they returned to their respectful homes in the dismal, darkened corners of reality.

But as he thought upon this revelation, he slightly frowned, the instrument of his truest revenge coming to mind at last. Eyes of the darkest obsidian penetrated his thoughts, like a serrated blade cutting through the mass of congealed hatred and desolation, the hellish black fire found from within searing all else and rendering him mute of words. He felt the fatal twist of the knife plunge further, deeper until the fleeting remnants of his inborn humanity faded away, the name of the one responsible echoing in a stifled whisper:

_Wendy_.

He briefly considered her then, the young and adequate Miss Darling whose charm and grace refused to diminish, even as she cursed him to his inevitable death. How he had loathed her then, just as she must have reciprocated her spite when he decided to make her a memorable sacrifice unto his timely nemesis. And he had, without thought or conscience of his actions, willingly offered her to Fate itself, casting her pleading, terrified gaze aside for more susceptible prey. And the _prey_ had, in all reason of the word, come to save _his _Wendy from certain doom. The boy could never allow a defeat, even as trivial as the girl's abrupt demise.

The captain inwardly baulked at the notion of his adversary and the one who dared to deceive him. She was nothing to Pan, as the boy would soon forget her, like all else that he had carelessly disregarded in the absence of his ever so fleeting interest. The brief fascination he held for her would falter, and then fade into the dark recesses of his ill-forgotten mind. He would thus leave her with the undying hope of returning to her, just as he had promised others but never honoured the deed of his glorified return.

She would grow up then, the pirate realised. Her idle intrigue with Pan would eventually wane in the grand passage of time, and she would, consequently, set aside all thoughts of childhood and become a woman in the midst of those who loved her. His black heart ached at the timeless word, the slight pain it elicited no less condemning than the mortal wounds that forever scarred his person. He would never know of love, for no one could bestow such a prized and most sacred sentiment upon one who was denied the innocence he once longed for. The time for such frivolities had long since evaded him, leaving him to the mercies of a broken existence between Heaven and Hell. As he would remain at this accursed place until the world ended and made corpses out of all.

He sighed dejectedly. For in spite of this mordant truth, he did not avert from his need of retribution. And he would have it—on _both_ of them. Pan's shattered reality would be a minor consolation compared to what he would do to the other. Oh, yes, he blamed _her,_ as well. For how could she _ever_ dare to be so merciless, so cruel as to deny him the one thing he desired most?

And though she was still a child in many ways, she would not remain so forever. Pan would indeed forget her, but _he_ would not. Miss Darling would soon see her brilliant error in wishing him dead, as he would kindly show her mistake in abandoning him. Her treachery in choosing death over his most sincere proposal was still a raw offence carved on the cold, un-beating muscle within his chest.

The wound would never fully heal, just as the uneven stump, where his right hand should have been, graciously reminded him of that mordant truth. And as such, he felt the bitterness stir within him once more, its ireful depths churning the ever-maddening despondency into a torrent of impotent rage. He felt this, as it boiled and shaped its dreadful poison from within. His heart—which was the centre of such calamitous fury—constricted its inner hostility, and his piercing blue eyes burned a murderous shade of crimson.

And thus, Captain James Hook moved forward, his mind set. The time for longing and self-despair was over, as the universe itself—the greatest of all being—shattered in that wakeful moment; the planets and stars falling from their fixed positions, like an shameless shower of shattered hope. He felt the heavenly bodies fall and transcend around him, encircling him with their ethereal essence. He felt reborn, revitalised, and would therefore begin life anew.

His quest would thus begin, as he found his bo'sun, the witless, yet reliable, Mr. Smee, and the rest of his paltry crew of ingrates. The need to reclaim his ship, which the boy had conveniently confiscated with his wild faction, reinforced the bitter rage rising from within. He knew without question that his men could never hold the ship against such an inexorable adversary. And Pan was, in all truth, one of the worst…

…But no more.

No more would he dare endure the child's petty cruelties. To be innocent, and gay, and heartless was a fool's idyllic fantasy. And _he_ was no fool. He would accept this fatal blow to his pride, and somehow, despite Fate's other designs upon him, survive. Pan's blood would then fall to shame, as it stained his nemesis' hook with its beautifully-toned colour of pain.

The captain smiled at this, wondering, considering—his thoughts coming full circle, the last being that of the one he would use—and eventually break—under the pretence of the sweetest of all revenge: love.

Wendy Darling would suffer under that false sentiment, since she foolishly believed that something pure lay beyond the edge of childhood. And he would be the one destined to show her. Indeed, he would be the man to carry her over that beautiful, breaking threshold between innocence and experience. And then, after all was said and done between them, would he reveal all, to both her _and_ Pan. It would shatter them, he could not deny that. But the faint trace of remorse found within his dark musings was abruptly cast aside by grave anticipation.

He would have to wait; he could not take her now. _Too young,_ he thought dismally. She would need to return to those who cared for her, feel their love and concern. Her time with them was already diminishing by each passing second, and it would not be long until she returned here—forever. Oh, no, he silently vowed, he would not let her go then. Not even after breaking that lively spirit—that relentlessly antagonised him even now—could he ever dare release her. She would stay, with him, and remain by his side for the rest of eternity.

He then realised, with painful clarity that his ultimate desire could only be found within her. He would break her, and then shape and mould her into what she was truly meant to be: the instrument of Pan's destruction, as she would inevitably bring about the boy's downfall.

His eyes closed, and his thoughts went out to her, their idle tidings promising her, vowing that he would one day come for her in the fatal throes of adulthood. He would find a way. The laws that kept this godforsaken land in balance could not hold him in bondage forever. Nor could they retain him from taking what was rightfully his. And he would have her—eventually. Wendy Darling would then be his, and no one, not even Pan's vast influence in godlike intervention could _ever_ take her from him.

And with this vow, he regarded his strange fortune as of late, a wave of understanding compelling him to acknowledge one final truth:

James Hook, pirate captain of the elusive vessel, the _Jolly Roger_, was, after so many years of numbed transition, alive.

…

**Author's Note: And thus begins our dramatic tale of the ill-fated promise of the captain. But will he succeed in this wild endeavour of his? Perhaps. Or perhaps his adversary will once again defeat him, with the lovely Wendy in tow; such excitement to be had, truly. But I must confess right now that this story, in particular, will be a semi-Peter/Wendy/Hook love triangle. Also, quite a bit of the story will be more focused around Hook than it will Peter, albeit our favourite flying boy will most certainly be in it!**

**With that said, I also hope that this does not sound too much like anyone else's story. I do not mean to use another person's idea or anything. And I can promise that although the beginning may sound very similar to others, the rest will not. Everyone will see that from the next chapter on. You have my word! **

**Also, a word of warning to all who decide to read this. Seeing as I am known to subtly interweave important details to the plot in my chapters, I advise everyone to pay _very_ close attention to everything, even words marked in italics can be vital to the plot. I also advise everyone to keep this chapter, in particular, in mind, as some things may be drawn from it…**

**On a further note, I need to acknowledge that my page breaks will be done with an ellipsis (…), so as to quell any confusion on a scene change. **

**Anyway, I hope that the beginning was interesting enough. I fear that it was a little disjointed between the thoughts of the crocodile and that of the captain. But I wanted to have its view, for it is rather vital to the story. Nevertheless, this is also the beginning—so…much will be explained in the coming chapters. I do hope that everyone enjoys the romance, drama, and danger that will ensue in later chapters!**


	2. Chapter One: Dreams Are Never Forgotten

Disclaimer: I do not own _Peter Pan_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners.

Promise of the Last Kiss

Chapter One

London, England, 1918

The streets of London were dismal, almost bleak in the absent presence of spring. Carriages flooded the cobblestone pathways, making no effort to abandon the almost deified way of convention that had been so heavily ingrained in the ancient walkways and avenues by the passing centuries. Even in the face of the greatest means of _modernised_ transportation, the automobile, could society fully turn away from the grandeur of the much-beloved Edwardian era.

Women, adorned in the formerly favoured _Gibsonesque_ fashion, strolled down the streets with idle confidence, their thoughts holding precariously onto the latest rage in style and paltry gossip that the _ton_ had to offer, as the war itself was completely forgotten by the passing cars and store windows—windows that only obtained the trivial delights of a war-torn society. For it was with this idle, devil-may-care pretence that those torn away from the battlefront could breathe without harbouring guilt for their cowardice.

And thus, they moved along the streets like mechanical clockwork, never once considering that the dregs of humanity could spur such revolt, such wild anarchy that could inevitably lead to their country's joining in the conflict against crazed radicals in a barren, godless wasteland of ice and snow.

It was the talk of men and their idealistic nature to overcome a people lesser than they. The desire to become a soldier and uphold the mantle of truth and justice compelled many to embrace the war with open arms, their dreams of renown only becoming shattered fragments of disillusionment as both man and soul lay prostrate in the bloodstained trenches.

Consequently, the loss and self-despair found within such a trying transition of pain caused even the greatest to fall on bended knee and weep like a mindless child. The mirror of vain confidence has thus fallen in a thousand broken shards against the remnants of what once was, as the overall dejection and crazed wanderings led many down a winding road of personified misery.

Not one had been unaffected by this glorified campaign of his sovereign nation, its effects leading at least one out of every loyal family to the battlegrounds where the fate of each would be decided, weighted, and measured. Most would not return home, as those who survived the battlefront no longer found themselves fortunate to be alive, having been discharged from His Majesty's service because of a war wound that could not be healed by even the greatest of physicians.

Soldiers would return to their former lives, beaten and broken by the atrocities of man. Their eyes were left haunted, soulless, the hollow gazes of each staring out into the infinite. As most were overwhelmed by the memory of things best left forgotten—the cries of the dead forever lingering in the depths of an unspeakable pain that splintered, shattering the mind's eye with the blinding agony of endless guilt. For such was the way of death and war.

And nor had any family been left unscathed by the war's cruel wrath, as most lost whatever sense of justifying the country's _noble_ cause had in its fight against the unmarked tyranny of those who chose to defy order. Decency and good conduct were marked casualties of the growing animosity from such vast diversity in both faith and government. And much like a god intoxicated with profane anger, it bestowed misery and pain upon its creations, subjecting them to the harsh reality of the world as death fell upon them by a grave stab of cold finality.

And it was such that the Darling family, whose impeccable belief it was to uphold domestic unity, was rendered in two when a distillation of that ever-distant conflict came in the form of one of its blessed sons, the precious embodiment of youth returning in pieces. And not a soul of that wondrous family could comprehend, or even understand how such innocence could be crushed by the aching drums of discord, that seemed to echo its listless war chant across the hollows of the maddening torture beyond its Hadean borders.

Wendy Darling, the oldest, and perhaps, wisest of the Darling children thought upon this, her dark eyes distantly searching for the ever-elusive horizon beyond the nursery window. She remained silent in her menial pursuit, the darkness of the winter sun falling against her as the pale, crimson-red beams failed to warm her with their fragile, fading touch.

She gently sighed, and her head inclined against the delicate glass panes of her childhood. She shuddered against them, instantly feeling the coldness of the approaching twilight ebb its bitter tidings against the degraded shores of her discontent, as the acrimonious pull of it enveloped her in a cloak of mordant apathy.

A tacit scowl besieged her delicate countenance, and she fought against such dire hopelessness. Though her innate reluctance of it was of little consequence, as its diaphanous folds held her, tightening around her delicate figure like a second skin, its cold, comforting gesture leaving only a trace of apathetic sympathy for the girl who had become a woman in the grave turn of a day.

The faint frown upon her lovely features wavered within the window's reflection, its translucent image reminding her of all she had lost…but also gained. For with the agony of losing the naïve innocence she had once come to cherish, arrived the inevitable understanding of becoming a lady. She had grown up, and thus cast aside childish things.

And yet, her unwilling pursuit of remaining a child did not wane. In truth, she had made the transition between child and adult not of her own will. Society's harsh strictures, her peers, even her parents—all of which would fragrantly regard her with strained concern of her refusal to take on the mantle of responsibility, which her brothers had all willingly done—left her awestruck by the grim certainty of becoming something she was not…

…A lady.

She silently scoffed at the word, inwardly loathing the accursed title. The petty illusion of holding the false image of perfection, something of which most of her contemporaries had accomplished with the dignified grace that had been ingrained within them since birth, only furthered the innate rebellion inside of her. As the very notion of becoming an adult offended her remaining dignity.

Yet in spite of her resistance against such practised madness, she knew that nothing could be done, as her plight would endure, lasting beyond this night and into the harrowing world of tomorrow, as she, Wendy Moira Angela Darling, would no longer hold that maidenly title of virtue. She would be a married woman by tomorrow's end, having a husband to share to a lifetime with, and not the childish solidarity she secretly yearned for.

With this, she closed her eyes in silent defeat, surrendering the last vestige of childhood to an uncaring world where all grew up…except one…

Peter.

Oh, how her heart ached at the name, its brittle, wounded shape collapsing within her chest. She felt herself fall on unsteady knees, unable to stand as the vital muscle—that was the centre of all life—convulsed, bleeding its sorrows out in dejected tones of endless misery. The divine arrow which struck it upon that ill-fated night had penetrated its virginal innocence, marking it with only the inept splendour of something that it could never fully obtain; the sentiment it echoed forever remaining unrequited by the one destined to guard it.

Her head fell in utter despair, and her eyes closed in shame. What a fool she had been to believe that he would keep his promise. The careless youth who cared solely for the fleeting interests of things could scarcely hold his brief attention, fostered this dire realisation of the truth. And although she fervently believed that he would remember to come the next spring and did not, she held onto the tattered thread of faith that he would recall the promise he made to her.

But as he allowed a year to fall in between his word, and then another, she had reluctantly begun to accept that he was too engaged to be concerned with a girl of whom he had intrigued during their short interval in the Neverland. His purpose in fighting pirates and having adventures, which other children could only imagine, were too important to set aside for an idle bout of spring cleaning.

With this unwanted truth, she faintly acknowledged that another year would pass without his company, as another year would fade the memory of his impish smile and childlike visage. She shook her head in a careless manner, knowing that he would not come, now or ever.

He had simply forgotten her.

Nevertheless, she could not cast his memory aside so easily. For she thought of him, often. But as the idle recollections of a perpetual innocence lingered within the hollows of her still-childlike mind, she could not fathom the shadows that enshrouded them as the madness within her dreams stirred her to such brilliantly damning wonder that she herself, with the reasoning of a soul barely twenty, could never understand. The furtive pursuit of a figure cloaked in the deepest of all mysteries would not allow her to.

For it was this self-inflicted fate that she felt compelled to marry, for marriage would be safer, more practical in the choice given over to the silly, childish imaginings found within her youth. Peter Pan, the boy who would outlast even Time itself, would have everything as the years of experience would not poison him as it did for all others. He would remain in a enduring state of naïveté as all else faded and died—as she, too, would in time—and would thus only be a fading memory onto a child whose ingenious nature came upon the final, fatal stroke of her impending death.

Her dark eyes opened then, and she accepted her approaching doom as the world came crashing down around her. The point of returning from such sweet oblivion beyond all rational thought the moment she willingly succumbed to the entrancing darkness that always greeted her at the crossroads of consciousness. She smiled contentedly, hearing its enigmatic call, as it pulled her inexorably against it.

She thus moved within its anomalous embrace, sighing in dark pleasure as it held her. Its thin, wispy, nebulous fingers caressed her, placating her weary soul as it had countless times before. As it was within this dark, arresting figure that she felt both fear and adoration, for whatever entity came to her during these despairing times was not wholly uninvited, but sincerely welcomed.

The timid smile upon her pale lips curved contentedly when she thought of her nameless comforter. She idly recalled how she felt the cloaked apparition dwell within her thoughts at times, always there, watching her, guiding her, its guarded presence hiding behind the dusky folds of obscurity. The face, which she had always sought, yet never found, remained hidden behind the toiling imaginings within her mind, taunting her with a secret that had yet to be discovered.

On occasion, she even spoke to it, confessing her worries and fears of fleeting girlhood trifles that would most assuredly dishearten her parents' deep-set convictions in her maturity. But the darkness never rebuked her, as it remained undeterred by her childish antics. And as always, it consoled her with its comforting silence, embracing her with the assured promise of prevailing against her present dilemma.

It was like a dark lover to her. One that she could confide in, trust in. One that she could almost…love. But her thoughts stilled as the dire notion of Peter being considered as such rendered her inner delight cold. _No_, she quietly argued, his light could never eclipse the comforting presence that had somehow usurped his place in her hour of need. Peter Pan had forgotten her, and she, in turn, would have to do the same. It was not fair to her family, her betrothed, or to herself. But most importantly of all, it was not fair to the silent observer whom she felt watch her even now.

"Forgive me," she silently whispered to it, a sombre frown replacing her smile.

And just as she uttered these penitent words, she felt the vague sensation of pain within her leg subside. The blinding, twisting agony left without further thought when the ever-comforting darkness soothed the instilled wound that would never fully heal. Her eyes opened and she considered her injured extremity, grimacing at the memory of the pale distorted flesh that would forever mark her as one to be pitied.

She was a victim, a delicate invalid in the eyes of all. And where she could see the remote compassion within those who learned of her _unfortunate_ accident, she could also sense the veiled revulsion of their being within a _cripple's_ presence. Even her parents displayed their saddened dismay of her misfortune, yet remained vacant of any disgust they may have had for her present state. No, only her family could understand the unending agony she went through each day, as her brother's own suffering was a hundredfold.

A stifled sigh escaped her, her thoughts remaining solely upon her younger sibling. It was a shame that he could not find any solace as she had. For where she had the reassuring presence of another, albeit in thought only, she at least had someone—_something_—that could give her the confidence she needed to face a cold, unforgiving world where people believed themselves to be better than others because of such limitations. She could endure the innate aversion that which was most secretly harboured.

And she would thus live with the knowledge of her situation, knowing that although she was reduced to depending heavily upon the aid of a cane, she could at least walk. And for that, she was grateful. Her only regret, however, was the grave fact that she would be required to use it _after_ the marriage ceremony, as she was unable to walk such a long distance, even as far as the church's main walkway, without it. Her father was the only one to save her from further disgrace, as he would lead her down the aisle, in his paternal duty to give his precious daughter away.

Wendy then thought upon her imminent marriage to one of London's most prestigious sons, the grandson of Sir Edward Quiller-Couch, whom she simply called Henry, would be her husband in less than a day. It was the marriage most talked about in the passing weeks, as a son of the noble realm took a commoner to wife. Her father…had been beyond ecstatic, as her mother demurely nodded her head in assent, almost silently questioning the legitimacy of the marriage, but in the end saying nothing in objection.

Even so, the marriage would take place, having been postponed after the past year's line of tragedies. She would then become Wendy Moira Angela Darling-Quiller-Couch, a newly-refined name, which heralded the predominance of personified grandeur. Moreover, she would be the first in her family to carry over the Darling name into fortune, the noble title christened with it enforcing the undying ambition of previous generations had now, at last, come full circle as she would inevitably accept such an auspicious offer.

But it was an offer filled with much uncertainty.

For although she cared for Henry, she could not fully bring herself to actually love him, as an aspiring bride should. In truth, she felt as if she were betraying someone else with the paltry affections she did exchange. She instantly frowned, vaguely aware of the many occasions of idle indifference she had, when in his presence. Moreover, they had never actually shared the sweetness of a chaste kiss. And for that, she blamed herself, since she could never allow him the opportunity.

There would be many kisses, she assured herself—the first upon their wedding day, when she surrendered her maidenly title and became a true bride. She would be a woman at last. And that thought, though terribly wonderful in all of its promising _minutiae_, almost made her anxious of the approaching hours. She would lose her remaining innocence, which had strangely remained intact by the War and fleeting years. Yet she would lose it the moment she said, "I do."

And yet, it was inescapable, she reminded herself. For nothing short of God could avert her fate. And her head fell once more in dark dread.

"Peter," she whispered to herself, hoping, praying as her pleading eyes turned toward the window. "Why have you not come for me? Have you truly forgotten your Wendy?"

_Never…_

Her head rose at the sound of the voice. But it was not Peter's. No, no _other_ voice could comfort her so. She cast aside her present melancholy, smiling as it encircled once more, soothing her with placating thoughts, which she received without care, all reserve and caution thrown to the wind for this unknown origin. She basked in its obscured radiance, yet realising, in that moment—as she had many times before—that she should question the entity's purpose in coming. But yet, could never dare bring herself to, for fear of losing it completely.

And in spite of these self-reservations, she gave in to it once more, feeling it murmur the confidence it had in her, its silent, unspoken wish for her to forget her despondency mirrored the tacit need it had for her to submit completely to its desire. And she did, without question, as Peter was soon forgotten, her interest lying solely upon the presence within her mind. Her smile widened, knowing she had pleased it immensely.

_Thou shall prevail, mon bel ange_, it whispered softly, _I promise._

Wendy nodded, revelling in its comforting accented vow, which reflected a hint of French. "I know," she quietly returned. "But I wish…" She did not finish, as the traitorous thought was abruptly disregarded. She could never ask her beloved comforter to come for her, as she had of Peter. It would surely abandon her, should she ever…

_Cast aside thy fear,_ the voice continued, undeterred by her silence. _I am here. Always_.

"And I thank you," Wendy said instinctively. "I could never—" She abruptly paused, her dark brows pursed together in deep consternation, as she remembered how the voice came to her more frequently after her accident. She thought of this for a brief instant, and then moved to speak: "I would truly be lost and alone without you," she quietly amended, blushing precariously at her discomfiture.

The voice remained silent, if only for a fleeting moment. But in the next instance, spoke most severely: _Thou shalt _never _be alone. I will not allow it._

She listened intently, knowing that it spoke the truth, and she yielded to its firm avowal. "You are right," she conceded, much to her embarrassment. "And I shall try to remember that you will never, ever leave me." Her teeth clasped her lower lip in thought. "_You_, at least, keep your promises…"

A moment, filled with inept anticipation, passed between them. Wendy gently sighed, feeling the tenuous figure return to the dark depths of consciousness, waiting only to be called when needed. She inwardly smiled, silently whispering her appreciation.

And with this minor show of gratitude, she rose, albeit unsteadily, and grasped the cane that lay idly against the window's ancient casing. The hour had grown late, she realised with mild irritation. Her time with John before he retired for the evening would be expired if she did not hurry—the music, which soothed him, not played for the first time since his return. She could not allow that. No, not when it would unfortunately be her last session with him.

Thus persuaded, she left the nursery, her irregular gait propelling her toward the room farthest down the hall. She moved, unevenly, through the narrow corridor, which was now engulfed in the shadows of twilight. Her passing glance at the ominous twisted shapes almost made her shudder, but nevertheless ignored the hidden fear they inspired, setting aside her childish phobia, and replacing it with the solemn face of her brother.

Dear, sweet, innocent John whose dark eyes could have lit the world with their wondrous curiosity. She faintly smiled, allowing a single, sorrowful tear to fall before she opened the massive ebony door before her. He must not see her cry so. It would dampen his spirits should he see his sister cry for his sake.

_How like a girl_, she idly thought, and then turned the door's brass knob, allowing the broken image of her dear brother plague her mind _and_ heart once more.

…

The room was immersed in darkness as Wendy stood in the door's silent threshold. The myriad of candles and lights which illuminated it had burned out long ago, leaving only a single candle on the bed's nightstand to flicker its fading light against the night's trying adversity. She grimaced at the poor illumination, remembering her own timidity with the shady element. The memory of her brother's unease, which he had profusely expressed in his war-stained letters, also confirmed his own fear of it.

She moved without thought to the stand, taking the solitary light with her. Her deft movements in the darkness went unheeded by the slumped figure in the chair, however, as she bathed the room with light once more.

Wendy considered her work; and with remote satisfaction, nodded as she turned towards her brother.

"John," she said with slight concern, "it is time for our lesson. I apologise that I did not come sooner, but I was unfortunately…detained."

The former soldier said nothing to his sister's open apology, only remained seated, lost in his thoughts. Wendy looked at him thoughtfully, her own voice rendered mute. She stared, helplessly, at the shattered body before her. The hollow look within his once-expressive eyes unnerved her, as it had when she first saw his broken and battered form return under lowered flag.

She had shrieked at the sight of the lifeless figure that entered the Darling home. John, the prodigal son, whose tragic arrival had forever shattered the remaining joy the dwelling kept preserved within its familial walls. Her parents were at a loss, as were her brothers—both related and adopted—when the hailed soldier returned to them, a broken man.

_It had been a grave homecoming_, she sadly reflected.

Even so, she smiled at him, trying to at least give a sense of normalcy to their strained relationship. She made her way to the piano, her cane duly echoing against the floorboards before she placed it against the worn instrument. And with fluid-like grace she sat, her hesitant gaze resting once more upon her brother. "Shall I play Mozart for you?" she asked, but quickly disregarded the suggestion, finding the Austrian's work too lively for his interest—as well as hers.

"Perhaps not," she muttered, flipping through the vast selection of definitive works. Chopin, Liszt, Gounod—all of which were prolific composers—were ill-compared to the work that lay before her now. Her dark eyes stared upon the familiar notes that compelled her to gain a love for music. Beethoven. It was the perfect choice for setting both her and her brother's souls at ease.

Her hands fell against the yellowed ivory keys, her fingers moving nimbly in the candlelight. She sighed under the dynamic flow of music, feeling only infinite peace flood her weary soul by the delicate strains of the composer's seventh symphony. Her choice in playing the sombre, yet moving, piece in A Major gave her the strength to continue as her brother sat in silence.

The music droned on for the next hour before reaching its dreaded conclusion. And yet, Wendy ended the piece with a flourish that even the greatest pianist would envy. Her time and study had evoked her father's desire for her to excel from that of being a mere teller of children's stories. With his insistence, her natural ability to play augmented to that of an almost skilled performer, as the music itself compelled her to continue, even after her accident.

She quietly frowned as other favoured pursuits were wisely set aside. Her dancing lessons, which her mother urged her to take, had been sadly postponed—permanently. She could no longer move to the waltz, nor practice the delicate art of ballet; her infirmity would not allow it. And as such, she was forced to sit at soirees and dances amongst her father's peers, the others of her caste joyfully partaking in an idle bout of dancing while she, the infirm, had to sit beside the dowager hens whose elderly peculiarities frequently discouraged her.

John had been most fortunate not to have endured such endless torture, as he had been secretly schooled away at Eton, while her other brothers did not _have_ to attend such droll parties that would, perhaps, stunt their growth. Wendy shook her head in idle bemusement. The very idea of her oldest brother _willingly_ partaking in a dance—_any_ dance, for that matter—was unheard of. Truth be told, it was completely absurd. For no lady could ever wish to have a pair of bruised and broken feet by evening's end.

At this, Wendy truly smiled, briefly forgetting her present sadness. But it was to be short-lived when she noticed the ever so distant look that always clouded his pale features. Her heart sank, and her mirth dissipated. John had not even heard her play, as he had not the previous nights since his return. His refusal to speak, even when she pleaded for him to, would not awaken the inert soul that lay in a permanent, catatonic state of suspension.

The physician's grim confirmation that John would never speak, or have any direct contact with anyone again, had affirmed the Darling family's darkest fear. Even as the months passed in silent monotony, far from the horrid reminder of war, did the oldest Darling son remain silent. His catatonia, along with the vivid memories that seemed to relentlessly plague him, only furthered his imprisonment. As it was an imprisonment from which he could not escape, as he would be forever trapped within his own mind.

Wendy stared at him, a part of herself knowing that she would never again see the boy she had both laughed with and cried upon in her youth. She wondered where her precious brother had gone, leaving her to suffer in her own misery. None of her other brothers could ever understand her as John had. Being two years his senior had only furthered their need to remain close as both approached adulthood, the times of playing pirates and princesses long since faded, but never truly forgotten.

She then recalled the bittersweet memories of their short-lived youth. John's avid expression had always been locked with hers, his attention rapt as she regaled him and the others with tales, not of the dark and loathsome James Hook, but of the Black Prince, whose courteous villainy surpassed that of the maimed pirate captain. The man was a figure of their darkest imaginations, which had ironically spurred, in truth, from the pages of history.

The Black Prince—for that was what all, even the English royalty, had called him since no legitimate name could be found—was always at the centre of her stories, having replaced the tragic Hook in tales far darker, more compelling than those found in her naïve childhood adventures. Her heart would beat madly in grave trepidation, the blood within her veins stirring when she perceived the dark lord's unknown visage. For no portrait or sketch had ever been made of him, as he refused for such to exist. And so she was forced to envision his ever-elusive guise, always left to consider every facet and flaw his face may have had.

Her vision of his appearance, however, remained secretly tucked away in the back of her mind, as a more falsified and safer likeness was produced for her captive audience. The innate belief to not compare him with a man whose eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots prevented the unavoidable grief her brothers would have. The thought of Captain James Hook, even the passing mention of him, would have evoked too many painful memories for all, even if she slightly linked him to the noble pirate that her brothers seemed to have admired. But strangely, it was _his_ image that had haunted her for many years in the idle throes of sleep.

But her interest in the infamous plunderer had ceased the moment of her introduction in London's prodigious society. She had aged gracefully during those trying times, her ignoble girlhood forgotten, as the promised beauty of her mother graced her before her third engagement. The myriad of dances, balls, and soirees she attended only furthered the growing intrigue of those who admired her. The sons of society came in interest, always seeking to fill her dance card for at least one dance, if not three.

And that was where she had met Henry, for the first time. Her thoughts moved wistfully to the boyishly handsome man who had come to claim her for a waltz, as he had impulsively filled her card for the rest of the evening. His mild hesitance in dancing had been overshadowed by the desire in making his fascination of her known. And he had, marvellously so. It was why she had accepted his proposal, a part of her secretly knowing that she would never again have another chance in making a _decent_ match, even if it was not based solely upon love.

For Henry was, to her belief, all she could have expected in a prospective husband. And although theirs was not a love match, the care and understanding he had remained a truthful, irrefutable certainty. And it would be enough, as it carried them through the warring years with the promise of a semi-complacent life, and perhaps the coming of…children.

Sadly, they had barely graced the surface of that inevitable subject before her accident, as the tragic affair had undeniably torn that expectation asunder when the news of her handicap reached him. And he had not mentioned the matter of children to her since.

It was of little consequence, however. Sooner or later, the issue would be brought up again, and then they would decide on it. Until then she would concern herself with marriage and let the last remnants of her childhood go as she departed from the simple confines of the nursery—where her life had truly begun—as she said a fond and final farewell to it, closing its doors behind her forever.

She slightly frowned in thought. It would be something that all of the Darling children would have to do. John had already done so. And as the unending passage of time continued beyond the borders of infinity, so would the others, including Michael, who was still very much a boy at heart. The fervent belief of a world beyond theirs had faded away, as all had already forgotten about the Neverland and their _father_, Peter. To them, it was simply a myth, a legend contrived by the imaginative genius of their beloved sister.

But perhaps they were grown up after all, Wendy reminded herself. All of them, including her, had forgotten how to fly. And so, perhaps she was the only one left to make the passage through its child's threshold. And she would. By tomorrow's end, she would close the door on that belated innocence forever…

Thus decided, Wendy removed herself from the piano, cane forgotten as she crossed over to the side of her brother and placed a chaste kiss upon his smooth forehead. She looked at him with the marked consideration of pain, pain in which he could never know. And much to her inner dismay, his lack of acknowledging her confirmed the horrid truth: He did not see her, or realise that she was even there. The agony that had lain dormant within her swelled, the mark of woe erupting in broken strands of desolation, which was almost too much to bear.

She fell upon her knees then, her hands moving tremulously over the deep folds of the blanket that covered him. Her head fell upon his lap, as bitter tears of regret brimmed within her dark eyes.

"Oh, John," she whispered brokenly, forbidding her tears to fall.

John, who remained unmoved by his sister's dramatic show of sorrow, however, sat, ignorant to all else, including her tears. But Wendy took no notice of this, as she confessed everything—all hint of worry and concern of her impending marriage—to him.

"How can I face tomorrow, when I fear tonight?" she questioned, her eyes remaining upon the blanket's ivory folds. "I know I should not, but I cannot help what I feel. I cannot set aside this present worry that grows and aches within me, as I cannot prevent what happens tomorrow. And even then, after everything is all said and done and I am married, will I still have this aching dread." She looked at him sorrowfully, revealing the broken, uncertain Wendy at last. "And yet, I must, for _no_ _one_ can prevent it from happening. Everything has been set into motion, and cannot be swayed, no matter how much I wish it otherwise…"

Her hands grasped the edge of his unfeeling knees, almost forcing him to understand. "I know it is unkind of me to think this, John," she went on, "but I still feel that there is at least one more adventure out there, beyond the world of growing up. And much to my regret, I yearn for it so." Her eyes closed, and the tears finally fell. "I still believe. Oh, God, I _still_ believe." And her soul mourned at the profound loss within her words.

"But I _must_ marry," she confessed, all pain within her voice subsiding into cold acceptance. "And I shall. And I will be happy with Henry, for he is a good man—better than what I deserve." She gently sighed, a ghost of a smile teasing the corner of her lips. "I wish you could be there, John. I wish I could see you there—smiling, at me—while Father gives me away, and Mother has tears in her eyes."

A moment passed in grave silence, leaving brother and sister to ponder this unassailable truth. The awkward feeling of dread crashed madly against the intangible stillness, as if willing the room's mute occupants to adhere to its ill-foreboding tidings that would come by the first rays of dawn. But both ignored its apathetic warning, not caring if Hell shattered the fragile bindings that held the world in place. As it would no longer matter, the world itself already ablaze by the icy fires of despair.

And with this mordant truth, Wendy, despite the slight hint of dejection within her voice, rose upon her knees and placed a warm, comforting hand against her brother's cold cheek. She smiled at him, taking in his childlike features, and secretly revelled in the knowledge that he had not lost all of his innocence. Her heart eased at the sight, and she whispered, "But I will pretend that you are there, and that you will congratulate us on such a beautiful wedding."

John said nothing in return, but she did not mind. Their little _pretend_ was enough to quell the harsh reality of their world. And so she held him, the last of her strength waning. This would be their final embrace as brother and sister, as she would leave him in the dark cold of his thoughts, the piano forgotten, the music abandoned.

But it had to be. For all else could not remain the same, not even the window in the nursery that, at one time, led to countless joys beyond all imagination, would hold any remnant of the life it once held within its translucent panes; the cast image of children growing up and forgetting their eternal youth, before they finally faded away completely from its glassine reflection.

It was a cold reality, she faintly mused, but one she had sadly come to accept. And as she turned to her dearest of brothers—though she loved them all equally and without measure—she saw her own agony reflected within John's eyes. For it was this bond forged through adversity that lay unspoken under turbulent tides of pain that they shared. And it was this bond that linked them, she realised, this fraternal link that no one else could ever know.

Michael and the others only knew a fraction of what the elder Darling children felt. Their empathy was borne of the weathering fear of change, not of the anguish envisioned upon first glance. In truth, they could not even fathom what their war-torn brother and broken sister endured. As the ache that tormented the eldest Darling son would never cease—not fully. And not even generous amounts of laudanum could quell the ever restless torrent that churned from within. The morphine injections had damaged whatever nerve endings left alive in the shattered soldier.

It pained her to consider such harsh truths, especially those of her brother. And she regretted that her abandonment would cause further harm to his already deteriorating mind; for even though the physician confirmed that John was past all awareness, she inwardly believed that some small part of him acknowledged her. The hollow expression within his eyes always lightened when she came to him and played their music.

And then a thought came, offering her a small reprieve from her present guilt.

"John," she whispered quietly, looking at him beseechingly. "John, when I leave, I shall have Mother play for you. I realise that it will not be the same, but it is all I can offer until I can come home for visits and play for you." Her hands closed around his, and a smile wavered upon her lips. "I wish that things could be different. And that I could stay here instead…" she murmured, her forlorn expression betraying her false happiness.

Wendy heavily sighed, her head placed disjointedly against the chair's hard, wooden edge. She did not even hear the door quietly open, or even the question marked as her name echoed into the room's silent space.

"Wendy? Are you in here?" the nameless voice called again, a pale face materialising.

"Yes, Michael. I am with John," Wendy acknowledged quietly, her eyes falling upon the awkward adolescent who remained poised at the entranceway.

Michael breathed a sigh of relief as he entered, closing the door behind him. He moved quietly, his footsteps graceful, silent as they contrasted against the wild, untamed light shocks of golden-auburn that idly fell against his forehead. Years of study had aged his naïve countenance, moulding it into a perfect likeness of his father, albeit younger and fairer. Even his eyes, which were an azure mixture of delight and curiosity, had matured under the schoolmaster's strict rod.

But despite such drastic change imparted upon him, he did not lose his intrigue, nor his kindness and understanding of his family. And with this considerate demeanour, he moved to his sibling's side, his eyes falling solely upon his sister, widening in fright.

"Good heavens, Wendy! Did you fall?" he asked, concerned. "Where is your cane?"

"Michael, 'tis quite all right," The eldest Darling child gently assured, trying to placate the youngest, but failing in her attempt.

"But your cane!" he reminded her. "You know what the doctor said about it: you cannot walk without it. Do you wish to cause yourself further harm?" He shook his mass of unruly hair, truly upset by her thoughtlessness. "I could not bear it if you hurt yourself again."

The brief irritation that overcame her from her brother's unnecessary antics dissipated into a cloud of understanding. Her youngest brother was truly the worrier of their lot, his constant frown permanently furrowed into the contours of his delicate face.

"Michael," she finally said after a moment's silence, "I am all right. I did not fall, I assure you." Her hand rose to smooth away his tangible worry. "And the cane is next to the piano."

"Still…" he faltered, not wanting to yield to her gentle assertions. He could not have her hurt again, not after last year. He turned to her, sorrowfully. "I am sorry, Wendy. I…I did not realise that. It's just that you were on the floor, and I panicked."

Wendy nodded. "Quite understandable. I would have frightened Mother and Father, as well, had they come upon me and not you." She smiled at him, her eyes revealing a tinge of mirth. "Besides, I would hate to upset them further since the wedding is tomorrow."

"Indeed," Michael agreed; a knowing grin upon his face. "I am sure that you are quite the opposite, seeing as you are regaling your happiness to John." He glanced at the seated man before him and frowned. "Has he said anything?" he asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

"Not a word." Wendy shook her head. "I cannot understand it. I just wish…" A tear threatened to fall from her eye, but she forced forbade it to fall, forcing it to remain at the brim of her eternal sorrow.

Michael stepped forward and removed the traitorous tear from his sister's eye. "There, there, now," he gently soothed. "I know. And John knows, too. He would not want you to cry—for his sake, especially. And besides, we cannot you have you crying before your wedding. There will be enough of that with Mother and all. No doubt she is crying about it already."

Wendy looked at her younger brother, a coverlet of appreciation encompassing her dark eyes as he handed her the discarded cane. "Thank you, Michael. I would not know what to do without your cynic's humour."

"Call it a gift, dear sister," he returned affably, enjoying one of her rare smiles. But then his eyes widened, as if recalling something important, something of which he did not wish to disclose. "Oh, and I almost forgot." He blanched heavily under Wendy's questioning gaze. "Your _fiancé_ is here. I was to come and tell you that he is waiting in the foyer."

"Michael!" Wendy said in surprise, her joy falling away to visible shock. "Why did you not tell me sooner?"

The youngest Darling had the grace to blush. "Forgive me. A momentary aberration, one that shan't happen again," he delicately entreated, trying to dodge the genial swing of his sister's cane. "I relent, dear Wendy, please! I don't need a concussion before the wedding. Or…perhaps I do," he added, leaving her side in haste as he bounded down the hall in fear of her infamous wrath.

The almost-bride gave an unladylike groan at Michael's fading words, as an unspoken promise to avenge her honour came to mind. She turned to her silent brother, giving him a meaningful glance. "Do you see what kind of spiteful demon he has become, John?" A heavy sigh escaped her, and her weary head fell forward.

"But I would not have him any other way, I suppose—even if he does not approve of Henry as much as Father does." Her dark gaze fell to the floor in minute irritation. "And he sadly agrees with the rest of our brothers' shared opinion," she confessed, albeit reluctantly, not wishing to recall the argument her engagement had caused amongst her adopted siblings. The dire effects it imparted were indeed something not to be remembered.

"John, I must go, for now," she muttered, her hand tightening around his. "I will see you tomorrow, before the wedding." With this, she stood and placed a loving, almost heartfelt, sisterly kiss upon his cheek, whispering, "I promise."

But John said nothing in turn, as he stared blankly at the retreating figure of his loving sister, the loving sister he did not see.

…

The belated hour of seven chimed in the distant hall as Wendy found herself descending down the wooden stair, with grim cane in hand. Her careful footfalls against the aged steps marked the hidden unease within her movements, her face, however, not betraying the innate strength she had summoned on meeting her future husband.

In truth, she was relieved to see him. Much time had passed since their last interlude, which had been scarcely two months since the obligations to his father required them to practise their rehearsal weeks in advance. And now they would have to remember their vows made in the solemn, ancient church only months before. Wendy suppressed a blush from the thought. It would indeed be a pity if she forgot her promise to him in a fit of nerves, an attack of the swoons thus following in their grave wake.

She quietly laughed, her present concern forgotten as she envisioned her wedding day. It would be perfect. As no dark cloud, nor aberrant storm, could hinder such an anticipated event. Everyone, except for the king himself, would attend. And with this mild consideration, she reminded herself that it was all she had hoped for on such an especial day. But sadly, to her private dismay, she harboured an innate dread of its coming, though she knew she would not regret her decision. Henry was a good man, she told herself once more. He would take care of her and comfort her, unlike his inability to after her accident.

But of course he was in _another_ country when the news reached him, she reminded herself, but failed in her attempt to believe her own assertions. The ill-fated news of her injury, which was unfortunately rendered permanent, had not spurred his return home. And sadly, it had been weeks until his arrival to see her, his apologies abrupt and stifled under a shattered veil of disbelief. He had visited her, for no more than an hour, before leaving her to the empty solitude of her room, with only a voice in her head as company.

Though in turn, Wendy subtly yielded her barrage of condemning thoughts. Business, of course, had hindered his stay longer with her. As it had for the past two months…

"But he is here now," she whispered to herself, the words, though forced, comforting her in their smallest fraction. And thus, gave her the strength to enter the foyer and find the man she would soon come to call husband…

"Wendy!" her mother's bell-like voice exclaimed, her light tone a merry trill.

"Mother," Wendy gently acknowledged. "Where—"

"In the garden," Mrs. Darling kindly interjected, her beautiful face, however, falling into shadowed concern. "And I believe that it is considered to be bad luck for the groom to see his bride on the night before their wedding." Her face lightened after uttering these noble truths, her merriment returning in partial measure. "But I think that some concessions can be made." She gave her daughter a meaningful glance. "Go on, my dear. He is waiting."

And thus, with the gentle insistence of her mother, Wendy stood outside the French doors that led to the garden, its small space enfolded by four stalwart walls of unyielding brick. She felt herself become almost breathless under their suffocating enclosure, the slight sensation of vertigo coming forth in dark waves of apprehension.

Her inner disquiet matched her desire to see him, the many months of separation compelling her to remember her fondness of him—for she truly cared for him—after their unwanted parting. The torrent of mixed emotions subsided, as the thought of his consideration to see her on the night before their wedding made her smile. She moved forward then, her uncertainty forgotten, the cane clicking in stride with her gentle footsteps.

The vague, yet discernible, figure rendered her movements, her eyes falling upon the silent outline of her fiancé. Like a statue, he remained motionless, static in the form of the truest of gentleman. His handsome features seemed to glow against the pale lamplight cast from the closed window behind him. Her heart almost quavered at the sight—almost.

"Henry?" she called to the unmoving stillness before her.

A moment passed before he turned to her, his perfect features mirroring his elevated status. Wendy almost drew away from such noted perfection, but steeled against such cowardice. This was her Henry, not a haughty lord or prince whom she would be inclined to acknowledge by forced obeisance.

"Henry," she said again, her blush obscured by the surrounding darkness.

"Gwendolyn," he returned with like civility, his hand extending for hers. He smiled as she accepted it. "I have missed you," he whispered against her cheek.

_Have you? s_he wanted to ask, but set aside such incredulity. He could not even gather the courage to call her by the name her parents lovingly gave her, but preferred a more suitable rendering of it. As he had once explained that it would not suit well in polite society, for it sounded too Welsh, and therefore vulgar in the eyes of his colleagues. But she discounted the stinging insult, munificently excusing his cagey strictures of propriety, and simply relished in the fact that he had come at last.

"I have missed you, as well." Her dark eyes brightened in the scattered starlight. "I thought…I believed that I would see you tomorrow, and not be—"

"I could not stay away from you a moment longer," he quietly interrupted, his earnest gaze softening. "Two months, with only your letters as my sole correspondence with you, was enough to drive me mad. I daresay that Bedlam would indeed have a new occupant, had I been forced away from your side any longer." He took her hands in his, the height of his tone quavering as he uttered, "Gwendolyn, I never intended to be away for so long. And I know that you must believe that I _wanted_ to stay away, but it is not that at all…"

His voice pleaded for her to believe him, though his eyes, those wondrous eyes whose sapphire depths held only remorse for his actions, revealed another story entirely. In his eyes, she saw the truth, and it cut her deeply.

"Henry, I…" she started, almost unable to continue, the painful truth setting in at last.

He deeply sighed, knowing that she would not continue. "Please, try to understand that my grandfather and father's influence forced me to leave," he calmly pressed. "I would never have left you, Wendy; you know this."

She looked away from him, her eyes downcast. "I know," she whispered dejectedly, her lovely face full of sorrow. "And I do not fault you for it. You had to. And I understand that. All I can ask is that you forgive my discourtesy toward you and your family."

"Gwendolyn." His hands clasped tightly around hers, subtly coercing her to listen. She looked up at him then, and he smiled. "My dear, there is nothing to forgive. I know that you were left alone, with very little contact from me. But I must confess that I, too, have felt the same agonising pain of separation. My _every_ thought was of you and you alone."

_How I wish I could believe that_, she mutely returned, but instead smiled. "I know. And besides, after tomorrow, there will be no reason why I cannot join you on your business trips." She looked down; hiding her bashful expression, as she, by Fortune's magnanimous intervention, missed the slight flinch he gave by her suggestion. "I would very much like to see Paris." She looked at him, her eyes bright with hope. "Perhaps, when your father's ventures take you there again, then I can come also."

Henry stared at her, nonplussed. "Of…Of course, my dear!" he blanched, faltering over his words. "I…would be delighted to take to you with me. After all, I recall the many times you spoke of visiting the Louvre and le Château de Versailles. It would be a transgression not to take you when I had planned on doing so for our next year's anniversary."

Wendy laughed at his error. "And now, I fear that you have spoiled the surprise!" she gently chided, but forgave him all the same.

"Perhaps I did." He smirked, his golden head bowing in mock remorse. "Nevertheless, you can look forward to it."

She slightly frowned at his implication, her dark brows pursing together in thought. "It is a pity that I barely know a word of French. I suppose it will be most difficult to get about without knowing at least a little."

"You took Latin instead of French in that boorish finishing school of yours," he concluded, his expression thoughtful. "I fear I am at the same quandary as you, my dear, for I took Italian and German. I know not a word of French, and much to my regret, I must admit that I depended heavily upon my father's accompanying administrator to translate." To his chagrin, he chortled at his own confession. "We will hire a translator, if need be. It would be most awkward indeed if the both of us are lost there and know not a word of that vulgar language!"

"Henry, their language is not vulgar," Wendy lightly admonished. "I truly wish that I could have learned it instead of Latin."

Henry repressed a solemn sigh. "Always the romantic with you," he teased.

"Of course you knew that from when we first met, remember?" she rejoined, as the dynamic between them shifted from gentle simplicity to gauche unease.

"I remember," he said after a long, thoughtful moment. His blue eyes took on a sudden, melancholic hue, his tender voice falling to a deeper timbre. He looked at her, his gaze becoming darker, poignant as the memories jutted through his jovial mind with the velocity of a shooting star. A myriad of emotions emerged from those azure depths, vanishing after a brief moment, his happiness falling into the ashes of remorse.

"Oh, Gwendolyn," he murmured quietly, his face, as if moving of its own volition, moving forward, a breadth above hers.

Wendy suppressed an instinctive shudder from his almost-touch, before his mouth descended upon hers with a burning, searing need of absolution. And they kissed in the darkened twilight, the shadows obscuring them from the stars' sentient watch. Their movements in the quiet stillness marked those of a lover's beginning, a promise before the actual consummation of souls.

The kiss deepened, and Wendy felt herself give in to her betrothed's evocative ministrations, never feeling as such from him before—for he had always been courteous and never so empowering. She smiled at the utter mockery of that preferred pretence, and secretly revelled in his kiss. Her hands encircled his arms, as if promising him, and no other, her prized innocence. She barely felt the oncoming force that overpowered her mind until it was too late.

"Oh, my God," she cried, pulling away from him.

"What is it?" Henry asked, worried as she held her head in apparent pain. "What is wrong?"

"My head…is hurting," she reluctantly whispered.

"Come," he urged, taking her by the arms. "Let us go inside. This cold will not help with your headache."

…

The evening's upsurge of events drew to a dramatic close as Henry Quiller-Couch, after having been relinquished of his fainting fiancée to the concerned care of her parents, bade the Darlings a rueful good-night. His brief explanations of what had transpired in the gardens left no suspicion as to what had happened. _Another fainting spell_, as was said by the grim-faced Aunt Millicent, who had made it her business to know every nuance and trick a young lady might devise in her scheme to rid herself of an unwanted suitor. But to Wendy's parents, it was quite the opposite.

The concern for their daughter's welfare forestalled the smelling salts offered as Mr. Darling carried the lifeless figure of his daughter up the stairs and into the sanctuary of her room. Mrs. Darling placed a cold cloth against the blinding agony that swelled within her beloved child's mind, her motherly assurances murmured against her daughter's deafened ear. Wendy was unaware of her parents' presence, wholly ignorant of their distress as she succumbed to the hypnotic pull of sleep.

And so she slept, for the better part of an hour alone, her parents reluctantly leaving her to rest. The ache within her mind subsided under the gentle lull of solitude, as a quiet breeze crept through the cracked windowsill, allaying the remnants of pain. Her eyes opened then, blurry to the world surrounding her. A pained groan emitted from her, and she removed the cold cloth from her head.

She felt weak, robbed of her former strength, the numbed pain within her leg a dull throb. She closed her eyes, swaying madly against the throes of consciousness, her memories before fainting returning in full measure.

The image of Henry and his gentle words before kissing her, as well as the kiss itself, made her smile. She almost felt…safe, with him, like nothing could tear her away from the momentary happiness he shared with her. And though he was reluctant to show any emotion akin to passion, she saw a fragment of it within his eyes before reinforcing it with his kiss.

A sigh, filled with deep contentment, escaped her, her thoughts remaining solely upon the man who graced her with such adoration. Her reservations of the forthcoming day were completely obliterated as she gazed upon the ring that adorned her ring finger, its diamond faceted cut mirroring the promise her beloved Henry had made to her. Her head inclined as she, at last, truly accepted his proposal, and all that it entailed. She would be happy then, and would perhaps come to lo—

_Call it off!_

Wendy's head rose in surprise. _The voice_, her mind whispered. A sable brow creased in partial disbelief. It was here, though she had not called for it.

"What?" she could only ask, her eyes darkening in question as she heard the cold tone in the voice's sharp rebuke. She suddenly felt afraid, frightened, as she hesitantly forced herself to whisper, "Why do you wish for me to call off my wedding?"

It remained silent for a moment, as if debating whether to continue or have leave of her entirely.

_You will call off this sham of a marriage. You shame yourself and your family by prolonging this farce,_ it said at last.

Wendy recoiled at its words, feeling the bitter sting of its said truth. But despite its honesty, she ignored it. "But I am happy. Henry is a good man, and he cares for me. We will be happy in our marriage," she explained, hoping to placate the voice, which was now vacant of its foreign accent.

_You deceive yourself_, it returned coldly, in perfect, unadulterated English.

"How dare you?" Wendy retorted, not caring if she furthered its ire. "Why do you care of whom I choose to marry? You _never_ objected before," she muttered bitterly.

_I had no reason to, before_, it reproached. _That whelp you deem betrothed was but a fleeting pursuit, as you did not _wish _to marry him. He abandoned you, as well, _non? it questioned, reminding Wendy of her fiancé's extended absence. _He does not care for you, _ma belle_, not as I do._

_And why do you care?_ she wanted to say, but could not find the courage to. In truth, she feared its answer, as its possessive jealousy moved her to worry. For never before had she heard such wrath, such agonising fury, not since her time in the Neverland, and even then the man she feared was no longer counted among the living. No, something beyond her reasonable comprehension warned her to sever all ties with this entity before something more than a mere headache stemmed from its now voracious anger.

And with this pained realisation, Wendy conceded.

"Please, try to understand that I will be all right. Henry will take care of me." She closed her eyes, the reluctance of uttering her next words almost forcing her into a premature submission. "You have been with me since I can remember, always reassuring me, guiding me. When I needed someone, you were there to protect me, to wipe away the tears I shed over my pain. And I will be forever grateful for that…" She hesitated, but then continued, knowing it was her duty to speak these final, condemning words. "But I must ask you to leave me now. It would be unfair of me to ignore you, when I have a husband who is destined to take your place."

She shook her head solemnly, continuing her trail of consciousness. "But yet, I cannot ignore Henry, either. It would be unfair to him, as well." Her head fell in utter dejection as she delivered the fatal blow. "And I sadly realise that…I do not need you anymore, for you belong to one who is a child, and not someone who is grown up."

She waited for it to speak, but heard nothing, as she felt only the dire coldness of its silent evasion. It left her, she realised, without a word or concern it abandoned her to the isolation she felt before its first appearance. And with this, she knew that she had ultimately destroyed the one, true friendship she had, as Peter had long forgotten her, and her brothers and family only knowing a fragment of her true thoughts and feelings. No one else knew her, save for the voice who knew everything.

And what had she done but rejected it with the genteel decorum of a true, unbelieving lady. Wendy cried out at the thought; the sudden, unexpected exodus of her beloved guide almost too much for her to bear. She allowed only a single tear to fall at her loss.

Never had she felt such shame, such pained remorse—not even the pang of guilt for worrying her parents during her first visit to the Neverland could compare to the regret of dismissing the voice. She did not even know its name, finding that it did not matter whether she knew it or not. It was only the thought of having someone there—even if she could only hear and not see the figure that calmed her—that could understand and remain faithfully by her side. She could not even remember when it first came to her, as it was so long ago.

But it no longer mattered. She would be a married woman on the 'morrow. And nothing, not even her beloved comforter, or the fragile cask that held the wasted dreams of sharing her life with another, could prevent her impending marriage.

And thus, Wendy Moira Angela Darling wiped the frozen tear from a cold cheek, righting herself in the bed as she did so. _Tomorrow_, she thought. Tomorrow would be the beginning of her newest and greatest adventure of all; her dreams forged in the innocence of childhood forever cast aside, her desires for a real future inevitably coming to life.

Her eyes closed then, blissfully unaware that her thoughts held the promise of the adventure she secretly yearned for, and so much more. And so fitfully tired and defeated was she that her dreams were oblivious to the dark figure that loomed so dejectedly at the edge of them, always watching, and waiting. A silent promise echoed duly against the colourful foray of childish imaginings, its firm assurance, though sadly disregarded.

The figure suppressed a forlorn cry of outrage; and its haunted eyes gleamed with a profound shade of melancholy. It lingered there, if only for a moment, watching its sleeping charge before dissolving completely into the darkened recesses of her mind, its tacit vow the only remnant of its presence.

…

**Author's Note: I realise that this chapter was rather long, but I did not have the heart to shorten it. All of what was mentioned is rather key to the story, so I suppose that it was important for this chapter to be long. Yet I like to write very _long_ chapters. But I highly doubt that any other chapter will surpass the length of this one too much. I do not usually write anything past this length, as I tend to regret it later. Trust me; it makes me want to cry when I look over something well over thirteen thousand words by the third revision. I find grammar and such to become rather taxing, then.**

**But for those who like long chapters and stay with me, I promise it will be well worth it in the end. You have my word! As I am sure some enjoy the idea of another adventure in Neverland, I promise it is an adventure unlike any other with quite a lot of mystery and romance added into the mix. And I had best shut up before I give too much away. :)**

**Nevertheless, our tragic tale begins, where the fair and radiant Wendy is but a shadow of herself. The pain and agony of loss is something that is conveyed not only through her accident, which will be explained later, but also by the war itself. I must admit that having John go to war, and come back in a form of catatonic shock, would trouble anyone, especially those closest to him—as can be seen through Wendy. **

**This chapter, disjointed as it is, reflects the war itself. As I really wanted to illustrate how devastating the First World War was for not only the soldiers, but for their families and those who were away from the battlegrounds. The propaganda, combined with the overall reasons for countries getting into the war, is mind shattering—even from a present-day perspective, which is even more negative and critical of the atrocities spurred by the minds of those who did not even die at the battlefront. **

**Be that as it may, I am working with history, which may be biased at times. I implore forgiveness for any errors made. And be it by my own discretion to mention that I know it would be ridiculous for Wendy not to have taken a little French. Well-brought-up girls during that era were taught such a language, usually even before finishing school. It would be socially unheard of if they did not know any of the fundamental principles of both French and Latin. But for the sake of Wendy, and for that of my story, let us pretend a what-if scenario where she and her fiancé, Henry, were exempt of that meandering obligation. **

**In addition, I realise that Wendy's other studies would have _most_ _certainly_ led to learning the French language—or at least part of it—as it was almost gospel in the curriculum of finishing/boarding schools at the time. Most young women learned Latin, French, and perhaps a third language. But more often than not, French was the one widely taught in schools. **

**In my version, however, I have held Wendy exempt of that demanding study for a reason. Also, I find there to be a small, if not slight possibility that she could have hedged around the institutionalised system of education and gotten clean away with only learning Latin. I take full liberty in divulging this small indiscretion, seeing as I have need for it later. :)**

**Also, on an added note, I admit that this is probably _far_ from any _Peter Pan_ story out there: war, loss, being forced to grow up in such a hellish time, all of which show a very dim future for our heroine. I confess that all of it seems quite far from the bittersweet tale we know. I only disclose this as a possibility of how Wendy truly grew up, as I set the time seven years after the novel's 1911 publication where Wendy is little more than twenty. (More of a concise summary can be found in my author's profile.)**

**But anyway, I dare hope that everyone is enjoying this story Sorry for any confusion in this chapter. Everything will be cleared up soon. Also, I hope that no one finds Wendy to be too weak or naïve when it comes to her fiancé or life in general. Trust me; she has been through quite a lot, which can very well change one's outlook on things. And I realise that most will question her sanity. I will just say that she is _far_ from being schizophrenic, and that the truth will soon come to light, though I doubt that she will be pleased by it. **

**Any guesses on who the voice could be? **

**Thanks again, for the wonderful reviews! I truly appreciate them. :)**


	3. Chapter Two: On Her Wedding Day As She

Disclaimer: I do not own _Peter Pan_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners.

Promise of the Last Kiss

Chapter Two

Night continued its twilight reign over the sleeping city, the forthcoming dawn and promise of the sun held back by the unrelenting touch of its darker sister. A dismal grey cloud obscured the winter moon, veiling the stars with its murky cloak as snowflakes plummeted from its nebulous form, twisting and falling in midair. Their fragile snow-dust figures moved deftly against such adversity, descending from the night's sky before colliding against an ignorant world where all had fallen victim to the graceful mercies of death and dreams.

Nothing stirred within the darkness of the night, as nothing dared shatter its ambient will. The flow of a thousand dreams and more coursed through its aching stillness, moving ever so gracefully across the minds of those who dared to still believe. As for those who were not so fortunate to be granted such pardon, the intrigue of bearing witness to their forgotten aspirations was mutely disregarded in the cold streets of London.

And so the night moved on in silence, unheeded by all, except one.

Wendy watched as the snow fell against the dark window, which remained slightly ajar, as it always had since her return from the Neverland. Her parents never questioned her strange peculiarity, nor did the middling ways of her spinster aunt dare deter her need in leaving it unbarred. Their understanding in leaving the solitary glass open went unquestioned since that night so long ago. She sighed at the memory of it, recalling her fervent belief in having it remain unlocked, despite the dull, driving touch of the winter cold.

Her gentle sigh fell away to the bitter silence surrounding her, a minute frown marring her delicate face. "Oh, Peter," she whispered with grave finality, never again to utter that hallowed name against the glass panes that once harboured her hope.

She turned away from the window then, and looked toward the pale reflection within the mirror, her sharp gaze eyeing the gown she now wore critically. Lace and satin cascaded around her in the purist of virginal whites, the golden-etched combs within her hair gleaming against the dim lamplight. She was dressed as a bride should be: with her hair pulled up into a foray of ebony curls as a few wayward strands fell, gracing against her lace-covered shoulders.

She inwardly despaired at the covering, having been forced into wearing the _suitable_ style amongst society, as her aunt had proudly deemed it. Her mother, on the other hand, had reluctantly given an opinion, saying that it was a lovely gown, suiting her. Yet despite Mrs. Darling's gentle tone, a sad, solemn acceptance lingered in it. For though her mother's voice sounded cheerful and eager to see such beautiful wedding attire, Wendy saw the pain it gave the older woman, seeing her oldest child in something befitting royalty. Henry's wealth and influence had sadly been too much for her father to turn down, as his job depended upon the noble family's most _generous_ offer.

And as such, the news of the impending wedding spread, the details of their choice of housing, clothing, even fine china—down to the last painted dish—was noted in grave detail in the heady columns of the _Times_. Strangers would gossip about it as they made contributions to the bank, always managing to question Mr. Darling for any details left out—true or not of their exemption from the articles. And Mr. Darling, receiving so much attention and interest, was more than happy to supply them with details of his daughter's upcoming nuptials.

Everyone in the Darling home had been questioned at least once when wandering the vast populace of London. Michael, as well as the others, was constantly barraged with questions—even by their own peers. And through each pained session, they managed to answer every trite and trivial question aimed at their dear sister. Even so, they endured, prevailing through such gruelling interrogations until they could bear it no longer.

Nibs had been the first to elicit any conflict between him and another. He, however, had not been the only Darling son to have experienced a heavily-worded letter sent to his father from the college's headmaster. No, the long list of sons who opposed Eton's meticulous system of rules and gentlemanly conduct proved their lack of showing good form to their fellow colleagues. Even Michael, the most reserved and sensible of their entourage, had also troubled his father with a letter from the school's provost. Aunt Millicent had swooned when she had been graced with one for her own son's misbehaviour.

Slightly had faired even worse under his mother's charge, having been treated to a three-hour lecture concerning how he was to ever make a good and decent impression upon others, when he himself behaved like a child born of the wild. Slightly, suffice it to say, flushed heavily under his mother's despairing words, a vague memory of something akin to carefree days under a foreign sun and traversing the wilds of another land relentlessly tugging at his mind. But he had immediately discounted it, finding that such thoughts were nothing more than a child's wistful fancy.

Wendy had only been made aware of it in a passing mention, as Slightly was never one to indulge himself in stories—not after John's return. All of her brothers had sadly fallen away from their nightly ritual, basking in tales of pirates and princes and faraway lands. It had been in the nursery in which they came, crowding on the floor as she told them tales filled to the brim with adventure and intrigue. And so captivated was her audience with her stories, that they barely noticed the dash of romance she would weave into her carefully articulated words, romance that held a tinge of magic and wonder in each soft-spoken syllable.

But stories were a thing of the past, for no more would be uttered in the dimly-lit confines of the nursery—not by her, anyway. Some other mother would indulge that dark magic, which could only be found in stories, with her own children as they shared a plethora of tales created from her own, ingenious mind. And that mother, Wendy sadly realised, would not be she.

A solemn tear threatened to fall, though she withheld its descent, swallowing the bitter longing of something she could not name. And it was in this dire state that the dear, gentle Mrs. Darling found Wendy in, as the room suddenly lightened with the maternal touch that was solely her mother.

"Wendy!" Mrs. Darling cried, suddenly concerned over the unshed tear found at the corner of her daughter's right eye.

Wendy slightly smiled as her mother embraced her, careful of wrinkling the gown. "Mother," she murmured in turn.

Mrs. Darling pulled away from her oldest child, her eyes filled with apparent worry. "Something troubles you," she said, as a mother could only know. "Tell me, my dearest, is it the wedding?"

A hesitant and almost remote sigh escaped the imminent bride, though she eventually nodded. "Yes," she quietly admitted. "But it is so much more than that…"

"Do you wish to talk about it?" Mrs. Darling asked, knowing that Wendy needed _someone_ to talk to. And who better than she, the one who knew her daughter best of all? Or at least, believed that she did. She was quite unaware of the many conversations with an unseen speaker that often dwelled in her daughter's mind.

Nevertheless, she would make certain that her daughter smiled this day—despite all other days that had pained her eldest one so, it would not be this day—she would see that Wendy did not regret her decision, whether there was indeed a wedding ceremony or not. Yet deep inside her aching heart, she wished that her dearest one remained here, with her family, her _true_ family. But her wishes, though tender and heartfelt and shared among all mothers of the world, were left unspoken as she submitted to the eventual prospect that all of her children would grow up and leave. Wendy herself would eventually learn of that pain one day…

"No, it is quite all right, Mother," Wendy said, her sombre voice breaking through her mother's thoughts. "I believe it only the wedding that has me so terribly out of sorts." She timidly smiled, a slight blush spreading over her cheeks.

"All right," her mother conceded, though still in doubt of Wendy's reassurance. Something, which did not concern the wedding, had distracted her daughter's attention. And it was this niggling upset, trivial as it was, that made her uneasy. For it was her ingrained mother's intuition that made her question, compel her to seek answers, as if something ominous was about to occur.

But she set aside these caustic musings, deciding that she would ruminate over them before the wedding. Right now, she would concern herself with her daughter's dressing, seeing as Wendy still lacked the finishing touch—her grandmother's pearls—which were, thankfully, all that she missed.

"I have the pearls," Mrs. Darling said, and placed them round her daughter's neck. She smiled, the ivory droplets accentuating the gown to its fullest measure. "You look beautiful."

"Do I?" Wendy asked with tangible uncertainty, not seeing that her mother mirrored her own tears.

"Of course you do," her mother gently assured her, wiping a tear from a wearied eye. "I have always known that all of my children would look their best on their wedding day. As I have also known that you would be the fairest bride to the fortunate man who would somehow win your heart. And Henry is very fortunate to have gained it." She looked down then, her expression not conveying the encouraging words.

But Wendy, though always attentive to anything her mother said, did not notice the older woman's hidden dejection, as her own attention lay fully drawn to the false glassine image before her. She faintly grimaced, her reflection nothing more than a fabricated illusion, brought on by the fervent urgings of a man who desired perfection—not the true vision of the bride he would take vows with.

The gown and choice of home had been evidence enough to fault him. And yet, whenever Henry smiled at Wendy, looked at her…it was enough. She could live with the grandeur that became him, as was his conditioning not to veer away from that instilled belief of self-luxury. He simply could not change who or what he was, and she had accepted that, even before he placed the three-carat diamond upon her finger.

She looked upon the stone that adorned her ring-finger and noticed how dull it appeared in the light. Her eyes darkened and a frown drew her brows together. There was no fire in it, no passion that such a wondrous gem could evoke. In truth, it seemed opaque, lacklustre in its sworn quality of being a perfectly cut stone. It was even said to have come out of the jewel infested wilds of India, or so the jeweller had claimed.

Yet in spite of its lifeless appearance, Wendy found it to nevertheless be quite beautiful. It was perfect, all she could have ever wanted. But yet, it also signified everything that she could not have; for if she were to go through with this marriage, she would never again be free. Her life would be forfeit, resigned to an existence of crude monotony, to a man who could offer her wealth beyond her wildest dreams. He could even offer her the world and the stars beyond it, if he so desired.

But it was this garish promise of everything that unnerved her. She did not want the world, not all of it. All she wanted—truly wanted—was to be happy. Her time with her family, along with the memories of the comforting hours spent in thinking of stories and a phantasmagorical world in which she could escape to, was all she could ever desire. A husband and family of her own was only a partial concern to her, though she wanted one—just not this day.

A familiar face materialised in her mind then. And a pair of eyes, which were the lightest shade of blue—almost cornflower in colour and tone—brightened within her mind's eye. The ruddy, childlike face and shock of golden hair complimented his youthful visage. For he was a dramatic comparison to Henry, only younger. Her eyes widened at the memory of the facsimile image, her breath stilling.

"Mother," she uttered, barely above a whisper, "I would like a moment to myself, if you would not mind."

"Of course not, my dear," Mrs. Darling returned, understanding her daughter's need of privacy. "I must speak with your father about a matter, anyway. I will return shortly."

Wendy nodded as she watched the matriarch of the Darling household leave, knowing that the matter her mother spoke of concerned her brothers' adamant refusal in attending her wedding. Michael and Nibs had been the worst in their reluctance to accept Henry, the others following suit in their beliefs to somehow forestall their sister's _mistake_ in marrying an 'ungrateful, blue-blooded wretch below _her_ station,' as Nibs would often say.

And not three hours past, had they even dared to lock her in her room, explaining to both parents that they were trying to protect her from making a terrible mistake. Their father had been…irate, yet controlled, when he dismissed them to their rooms, his forced ultimatum having each apologise, and then dress for the occasion, bearing in mind that their sister _would_ indeed marry the dreaded aristocrat.

Michael had almost cried, outraged, but quieted his tears as he retreated to John's room for sanctuary. And as far as anyone in the Darling home knew, he was still there, convalescing with his mute brother over their sister's rash decision in marrying.

But was she making a mistake, as her youngest brother had claimed? she silently wondered. Was she indeed making a grievous error in marrying Henry? Deep inside, she felt the truth churn maddenly within her, though she could never fully admit it to herself. Henry loved her, she was sure. Even if he had not placed such a moving sentiment into words, he still cared for her. For he would never marry another if he did not at least feel some small affection that resembled that all-encompassing word: love.

No, Henry was too noble, too honest to betray her heart so cruelly. He wanted to marry her—for _her_—and not for the sake of keeping his promise. His kiss had proved as much.

A small, almost timid smile crept at the corners of her lips.

The memory of his kiss…

And just as she considered the warmth of his mouth against hers, she noticed herself in the mirror. The pale, half reflection was a poor representation of what she truly felt inside: she appeared as one dead, a replica of the falsified splendour that stood before it. Her dark eyes and hair contrasted greatly against her unnatural pallor, her mother's pearls gleaming ominously round her neck.

She was taken aback by the figure found within the mirror's crude surface, her balance slightly wavering against the formidable shock that crashed madly against her, for as she looked upon her likeness, she saw a woman, not a child, refracting its lifeless stare. This creature-called-woman gazed at her, with its eyes as dark and soulless as a pale winter's moon, echoing its soundless words in the harsh stillness of the room: _this is what you shall become._

Wendy shook her head in doubt. For she, the living bride, in spite of her initial fear, returned her dead counterpart's listless stare. "Indeed I shall become so, but not today," she murmured reverently, though her eyes, which were not filled with thoughts of death, but with the promise of life glared an unyielding assurance of that noble truth, the steel behind that unbreakable vow cracking the feigned likeness, and thus shattering the foreboding apparition with unfettered resolve.

A moment passed in transitory stillness, and her thoughts returned to the one who forced her beloved mother out.

Peter.

She turned away from the mirror, utterly dejected. Her heart ached, and her soul cried, the loss of something she could never attain stripping her of her remaining composure. She paused then, and her heart came back to her, albeit in pieces. The bittersweet memories of her former innocence made her falter—almost fall from the stolid pillar on which she stood.

Fragmented recollections of a land where children remained young, forever unblemished by the tainting influence of a world they could never comprehend awakened the child that still remained inside of her. That child had never truly grown up—not fully. The whisper of a belated desire still echoed its childish banter in her mind, as if summoning some self-willed action against the authoritarian throes of society. And Wendy, despite the ladylike decorum instilled within her, heeded to its call.

Once more she gazed upon her reflection, seeing the woman—the child forever hidden under a coverlet of powder and rouge. She inwardly recoiled at the sight, full of disgust. How could she have thought—even considered that becoming an adult would quench her unending desire to attain something that she could not name? How could she believe that, in marrying Henry, their union would heal her, as it would her leg?

She shook her head at the thought. As nothing could change what had happened, even if she desired it otherwise. And thus, she beheld herself in the mirror, her eyes falling to her beloved mother's pearls. A frown distorted her noble brow, for such elegance was to be worn by a lady, not a child. Her hands raised then, timidly, the thin, alien digits moving clumsily over the soft ivory grains, which represented purity and all things motherly and feminine.

They were the embodiment of innocence, the final requirement of a lady before she became a matronly figure after her sacred wedding night. But for now, they were her protection—given to her by her dear mother as a means to ward off the evils that would somehow dare intervene upon her marriage—as her husband would ultimately take their place as her sole protector. Her eyes then met those of her double.

_One last adventure_, she wordlessly mused, before unfastening the necklace from her delicate throat—her mother's pearls, which she removed without thought, and without care.

"I no longer need your protection, Mother," she said softly, setting the necklace upon the vanity. "I must face this alone."

Thus decided, Wendy disregarded the necklace entirely, her eyes searching for another. An onslaught of seconds passed into a soundless eternity as she rifled through her belongings, her treasures. Her hands moved gracefully through the myriad of trinkets, undoubtedly collected throughout her youth. A multitude of hairpins and ribbons—which had miraculously survived the trying and ever so turbulent times of her girlhood years—were placed neatly in the back of the vanity's drawer, along with a set of rings, now too small for her fingers.

Her search led her a merry dance, as each trinket and bauble magically invoked another pleasant memory. She found a set of photographs of her parents, yellowed by time and worn by age, her mother's silver comb, and a coral earring—the other having been misplaced by her mother's mother before her—and a small box of lavender mints, which she found to taste quite dreadful, though the box itself rendered a delicate beauty to it.

A pair of fur-lined gloves and half of a peacock feather were also to be found amongst her precious treasures. Her glass slipper—or rather, that of _Cinderella's_—lay within a velvet-encased box upon her vanity. It was a coming-of-age present—as all her brothers deemed the age of twenty—for her last birthday. As in addition to this singular occasion, several dried, pink-etched roses stood proudly within a crystalline vase; another gift, from her well-meaning parents, who sadly, could not offer her more.

Yet their short-comings made little difference to Wendy; she was happy with them all the same. For _these_ were her treasures, her memories. Even the crystal ball, which John had almost broken in his brilliant observation of it, was here. She smiled at it, touching its smooth, rounded surface fondly. It was rather surprising that it had survived for so long, without having the slightest crack or chip in its pristine surface.

But as she thought upon this treasure, her eyes moved to another trifle that lay idly within an ivory skein of silk. Her eyes widened in recognition, and her lower lip trembled. Her hand, moving of its own accord, graced against the silken surface, before being wholly eclipsed by her fingers.

Wendy suppressed a heartrending shudder, and she removed the foreboding cloth from the drawer's dark confines. She closed her eyes, her traitorous hand holding onto the disdainful charm wrapped within it, as if it were a lifeline. A thousand new and shocking sensations flooded her mind, inundating her with things she had tried to set aside. Her eyes opened then, feeling the driving urge to forget _everything_. For the dreaded thing she held in her grasp reminded her too much of _him_—too much of thimbles and of kisses; of promises that were left broken, shattered against her decaying hope.

She sighed deeply, her hand reluctantly opening to reveal that most feared and dreaded thing. She hesitated, if only for a moment, but then gathered her remaining courage, and looked upon the terrible article. An acorn—a kiss, as he once called it—was cradled in the palm of her hand, the hole in its dark centre evidence of its power—for it had once saved her life, from the deadly arrow of jealousy.

Oh, yes, the one who gave her such a gift had many who loved and adored him. Princesses of the savage lands, noble faeries of the Seelie court, even strange, dark, and mysterious mermaids found delight in admiring him. He was youth, he was joy, he was the little bird that hatched out of its egg and knew absolutely nothing of the world and all the people in it. He was Peter Pan. Her Peter.

Her hand tightened around the acorn, the golden chain still attached to it. _Her only kiss_, she faintly mused. It would be the first from him, and sadly, the last.

And though unwanted, this lasting knowledge, which had been so deeply ingrained in her mind, compelled her to keep it hidden, safe from the prying eyes of those who dared to take away this final dream. It was why she kept it here, within the safe sanctuary of her vanity drawer. And there it would stay, as she could not have another incident in which something precious to her was lost.

She had been fortunate to have left her kiss out of the music box that usually held it. Her face contorted into an indelicate frown, remembering the trinket box…

It had been a gift from her grandmother, on her father's side. The trinket box was the only thing left to her—as stated in the complicated will, which left most of the deceased matron's possessions to her sons, including George, her father—and no one else. The house in Mayfair, in all of its dilapidated glory, along with its meagre furnishings, was only a fraction of what her father had inherited.

In truth, the retailed estimate the youngest Darling son received from his belated mother came to the heady sum of twenty-two hundred pounds. Suffice it to say, Mr. Darling had been bowled over by the news of his eldest brother obtaining the family estate in Sussex and thirty-one thousand pounds, made by the simple banking business of their father.

Nevertheless, Mr. Darling never begrudged his oldest sibling for his share. It was not in his nature to, since his own sons had somehow managed to drop—quite literally—a king's ransom in jewels at his feet upon their return home from the Neverland. His oldest brother had remained in complete ignorance, always wondering how his youngest sibling, who was both less educated and duly impoverished in the means of making a decent living, managed to somehow send all of his sons—both related and adopted—to the most prestigious college in London. But as far as Mr. Darling was concerned, his affluent brother would never know, as such things were made to be kept secret…

And so it was with Wendy's music box. Where upon her innate joy lay within its gold-encrusted hinges and bejewelled casing, did she find a sense of belonging, like she had been destined to posses such a wondrous and rare treasure—which had allegedly been made by the hand of Fabergé himself—in its unique craft and design. Indeed, it was the only one of its kind, as its creator made nothing so grand and intricate twice.

She had been gifted with this, as a final token from the grandmother she barely knew. The history behind it, which she had been imparted with before her grandsire's demise, was that it had been crafted to turn with the tides of time, ever-moving, ever-sailing, as the golden ship within it rotated in a strange and abnormal counter-clockwise dance against an ebony backdrop of a star-scattered ocean.

It had been her greatest and most coveted treasure of all—even more so than Peter's kiss, as only the voice's _gift_ equalled that of the enchanted music box. A star, which had exploded into existence the moment she first drew breath, was gifted to her on her twentieth year. As it had been the only gift other than the glass slipper and dried roses, from one she had never seen.

And yet, it did not matter all that much, for the star—which the voice had specifically intended as the greatest of gifts bestowed—was indeed her own, as all who are born in this world have a star, even after they draw their final breath. And so the diamond, as Wendy would always consider it, would rival that of her treasured music box, now lost to time. She sighed then, sorrowfully, remembering its gilded loveliness…and her dreaded aunt's fury.

Aunt Millicent would often profess her own objections against Wendy's possession of the box, believing that _she_ was the one who should be sole custodian of such a priceless family heirloom and not some addle-minded girl with her head full of stories. Wendy's father, despite his usual timidity in anything that concerned the overbearing spinster, would hear none of it, silencing Millicent's prattle over who should preserve their family's sacred effects. His desire for his daughter to have at least _one_ thing that belonged to their family overruled any further complaint elicited from the fuming _aunt_.

But alas, Wendy's time as its keeper had drawn to a dramatic close. For four years, she had owned it, protected it, and guarded it from the covetous eyes of her prodding aunt. And for four years had she held it within her safekeeping, always aware that should something ever happen to it, she would be forever without its comforting presence. It was much like the voice in that respect, as it was always there whenever she needed it. And even the strange, yet hauntingly beautiful, melody that echoed from its soft strains—which her grandmother claimed to have been an actual song from the ancient and primordial sea—resonated with a beautiful lament of something she could not name.

Indeed, the music box was a priceless treasure, as it had allegedly hailed from lands far to the east, in the forbidden snow-covered wastelands of Mother Russia. Fabergé had been a master artisan when crafting its delicate gold framing, his own imagination running rampant from tales long forgotten by the ebony shores of the Black Sea. And at times, Wendy even felt herself dance to its oceanic call.

Though, that had been long ago, when she still had it in her possession. It had been…lost for quite some time now. Three years, in fact. And for three years, she had lived without its ethereal tune—those fleeting thirty-six months elapsing into a timeless bout of self-disbelief. In truth, she did not know what became of it, for it idly sat upon her vanity one evening—where it always resided, undisturbed—where it had strangely and inexorably vanished within the night.

She had no explanation for its disappearance, for there was none to provide. Her parents were left utterly baffled by its absence, her aunt angered by the horrid fact that such a significant loss of a priceless family token could occur under her _ever_-_watchful_ eye. Even Nana, the Darling's former nurse, had been, at best, perplexed by this most grievous of news, which need never have happened had she still been charged to watch over the children. Michael had no further need of her assistance after his thirteenth year.

But despite this muted censure, her brothers, who were the only ones who truly understood her plight, were the first to confess their innocence. Not one out of the eight had admitted to any guilt, as each swore that he had not taken it. Wendy never blamed them for it, either, finding that she wholeheartedly believed them. They had even offered their services to her, aiding in the long campaign for the missing trinket box. And she had been grateful for their commitment to her—all had even offered to purchase her a new one when their quest had been unsuccessful.

Wendy allowed a slight smile at the wistful memory of their brotherly compassion. She fondly recalled how they contrived a plan to use their savings to purchase the finest trinket box in all of London, at the princely sum of seventy-three pounds four. Her father had barely suppressed a stroke from learning of their plan, but stifled any objections he may have had by his wife's gently whispered urging.

It could even be noted that Aunt Millicent had not fully objected to the idea, leaving a most pleased Wendy with the knowledge of her aunt's quiet submission. But in the end, however, the oldest Darling child found that she could not accept her siblings' kind and most sincere offer, knowing that nothing, no matter how earnest and apologetic her brother's were for her loss, could ever replace her beloved treasure. And nothing had, as she still, at times, grieved quietly in its absence.

And yet, she now grieved for many things.

One less grievance would indeed be unorthodox to her pessimistic nature. Besides which, she had already come accept the many passing whims of a girl who had lost much of her dreams, as the star she gazed ever so devotedly upon each and every night—with the ardent fervour of a most faithful stargazer—dare she turn away from its brilliant, luminous splendour the moment it was replaced by another, more brilliant and beautiful.

There was no cry of outrage, no plea to remember a promise that she, in turn, had once made. There was nothing to herald anything opposing the passionate notion that something lay beyond that of a child's forgetful mind. And such a child—such a selfish, cruel, forgetful child—had forgotten something so sacred a promise to remember the only girl who would willingly give him her most prized treasure: her _eternal_ kiss.

Was she so easily forgotten? Had she been so insignificant, so irreproachably irrelevant that he could forget her entirely? True, she had vaguely imagined that his mind, with its small compartment of the myriad adventures he so often had, would surely crowd out the older, more favourable ones. He had even forgotten Tinker Bell and the loathsome Hook within the span of a year, as she, too, would most certainly fade from his mind in time. But she did not believe that her small, immaterial presence within those congealed memories would be so easily cast aside. No, something akin to her inner soul railed against the very consideration of it.

But yet, it seemed that her firm convictions in his remembering her were terribly wrought in vain. He had, if not failing her in his fickle memory completely, did indeed fall short of his not coming for her for spring-cleaning time. Indeed, the silly boy had forgotten quite a number of them that Wendy had lost count. And in turn to this affront, she had not looked to that second-most right star—which held all of the hopes and prayers she had once confessed in its divine wake—since.

_Why gaze upon something that will only cause you pain?_ The beloved voice within her mind had once asked. Its smooth, tender words had not been forgotten, either, when it ever so gently cloaked her in a sea of comfort. It—or rather, _he_, since the voice carried a deep, almost familiar, masculine timbre in its tone and diction—was most enduring in her many upsets, especially when it concerned Peter Pan.

No other could be so understanding, when it came to that most pressing of subjects. Even her dear, most beloved mother could never fathom her daughter's plight completely. Only the voice, which had acquired some God-given gift of perpetual patience, could tolerate her onslaught of grievances. And it had, even so to the brink of obliterating her obsession with the child of eternal youth completely.

It had been a rainy spring evening, at the end of a cold April when it made her, for a moment, reconsider her reasons for loving a child. And for the briefest of those moments had she felt the painful clarity of her inborn actions spurn that most lovely spoken of subjects. Peter would never return for her, confess his love, and marry her. It was not in his nature, as the voice so candidly foretold. She could have almost thanked him for his forthrightness and sheer honesty on the matter then. But sadly, _he_ was no longer with her…

Nevertheless, she could not accept such truths entirely. No, a part of her still yearned for the golden child she once coddled and adored. And it would be so until her dying day—even if she were to marry anyone _other_ than Peter Pan.

And with this unspoken truth she moved to place the golden chain round her neck, her hands moving inexorably to clasp the delicate fastening into place. She cast a fleeting glance toward her reflection; a final promise to the one who would never come for her. He had just been too late, she supposed, if he had been late at all.

Thus persuaded with this noble reasoning, Wendy acknowledged herself in the mirror. It was time.

"I must go," she murmured quietly, for the journey to the Quiller-Couch estate would be an arduous one, especially when it concerned her already being in a wedding dress. She sighed heavily at the discomforting arrangements her intended left her with; for the family estate, Henry had sorrowfully expressed, was not yet prepared for anyone to inhabit, as it had been left vacant for several years. And so he had suggested that she remain in her respectful home and travel there, already prepared and ready to say her vows the moment she stepped outside of the carriage. It was the reason why she was readying herself at such an ungodly hour.

She shook her head in indissoluble dismay, feeling the overall dread of the coming hours. Indeed, she would face her destiny on this fateful day, and marry the one she would be united with until death—and perhaps even after if their love remained true. How she hoped that it would be so. She had gone so long, so far without it that it now seemed to be only an illusion…

Her eyes then fell to the ring that adorned her finger; its three-carat cut perfection reflecting its ostentatious brilliance. She stared at it for a moment longer, before looking to the kiss that hung from its golden perch. She admired its humble figure, smiling as she considered both kiss and ring to be from the same entity. It was indeed a perfect match, as she and Henry would be.

But as she looked upon those signets of all-consuming love, the two became one in the same, kiss and ring fusing into a prodigious display that bordered upon the macabre. For what she saw in the mirror frightened her beyond words, as both her loves represented a harsh, infallible truth: for they, too, were of one person—a person in which she wanted, yet could never have.

It was a grand illusion in which she had masterfully contrived—an illusion that was indeed dire. She was to marry a man who would only replace another, a man—or rather, boy—she so desperately wanted to love, but could not.

And it was then, she realised the truth…

"I am making a mistake," she said to the ring upon her finger, "I cannot do this."

And as she spoke these beautifully condemning words, her world shattered as the impending advent of another headache came forth, and waged its dark battle against her weary mind. Wendy cried out from the instant shard of pain, feeling its overbearing onslaught wear away the torn remnants of her tattered sanity. Dear God, the ache was agonising, even so much worse than before, though she did not know why.

_Mother_, she wanted to cry, her matured and inconsolable air reverting to that of a helpless, childlike state. She stumbled to the bed, the forgotten cane unable to aid her as she collided against the already made coverlet. Serrated short breaths escaped her, their erratic sound remaining unheard by those whom she called upon in her time of need. Something was wrong, dreadfully so. She could feel it with every pained sensation riveting throughout her brain.

_Please, end this torment!_ her mind cried to the unknown origin of her pain. _I will do anything to make this pain cease!_

Anything…

Consequently, as Wendy uttered this earth-shattering plea, this final cry for liberation, she felt only the wordless sufferings of a woman condemned, doomed to live a lifeless eternity without the one whom was truly destined to free her of the cold rusted chains of despair—that same one whom she loved with a reckless abandon that only a child could ever know. And as she considered this, she gave in to the darkness that now called to her, soothing her with its ever-comforting presence.

She closed her eyes—which held only the pain of simply being—then, feeling the gathering shadows quench her agony, a gentle voice promising her solace as her final thoughts reflected solely upon her wedding day…

…

…_For such tidings bade even the lowliest of men to recognise such a momentous and rare occasion. Even the church itself was a sight to behold, as the wedding's regalia emblazoned its hallowed sanctuary with the solemn conviction of a union already bound by words. White ribbons draped the pews, complementing their intricate mahogany finish with sheer, gossamer beauty unparalleled by all. As the ancient stained-glass windows and parapets of stone only complemented an edifice of such sacrosanct eminence._

_But even more was the purity found within the immaculate house of the Christian God. As the Quiller-Couch-Darling wedding would indeed be imprinted upon the notable family's small, yet elegant, chapel—a crown jewel, albeit a clouded one, in the empty cornerstone for the next noble heir, which would irrevocably be filled this day._

_Wendy glanced about her surroundings, feeling the overall dread of this day dissipate as the headache had hours before. She felt confident, assured that her decision in remaining true to her betrothed—and not heeding the momentary weakness of a frightened bride-to-be—would not make her feel any regret. In truth, she felt relieved that a part of her would enjoy the life Henry had planned for them: the bride of a noble son sailing to an unknown destination that her heart secretly craved, as was tradition for all brides._

_And Henry would, she believed, indulge her in such a wondrous fantasy that an aspiring bride could only dream of. She had never been outside of England, and only a few times out of London—with the reluctant exception of her visits to the Neverland, which she could merely consider as now being only a dream—was nothing compared to the grand adventure that she had envisioned since childhood. _

_She wanted to sail away, to the farthest reaches of the universe, away from the shores of pain and despair, and the chaos which had now become her life. She wanted to forget the war and the pain it had invoked, wanted to forget that her brother was rendered mute and incoherent to the world around him. But most all, she wanted to have her own adventure, to have someone who would remain by her side and never, under any circumstance, abandon her to the cruelty of a world that did not understand her._

_Peter had left her to face that unfortunate fate, alone. But if he had done so in good conscience, or was merely ignorant of the knowledge his actions would thus generate, she did not know. Nor did she wish to. _

_No, her next adventure—be it that of a lowly, adoring, ordinary housewife. Or that of a princess who was adored by all—would be without the magnanimous company of Peter Pan. In fact, she would deprive him of hers, if he so dared to return to the nursery window, only to find it now barred, and the door fast-locked._

_But had she not already dared such blatant audacity? Against her better judgment, she had closed it that morning, never to leave it open to anyone—especially that of an ever-forgetful child—again._

_As such was her fate to grow up and leave the world of childhood behind. And she would do so the moment she uttered the vows that would make her a woman forever. Henry would be her love then, not Peter Pan, as they would endure the pains of aging and watching their children grow up and leave. It was a sad truth, but one she had come to accept._

_For as long as she had someone to suffer it with, then she could somehow find it within herself to outlast the wearing constraints of old age, and forever endure against the test of time. And even as death came to claim her, she would, in the end, have victory over such a timeless adversary, as was her legacy—found within those who remembered her—held in a portrait of eternal youth, captured forever in a still frame that would stand upon the family mantelpiece until all else faded away by the persistence of time. _

_Even so, Wendy realised time's forthcoming vow; that she would, one day, fall prey to its harrowing pursuit. But it would not be this day, she reminded herself, not this day where she would finally retain some sense of happiness. And just as she had admitted such a vow to her lifeless reflection in the mirror, did she now recall the meaningful sincerity of her words._

_She would be happy, and forget that she ever regretted returning to a world that now, through its marked shame of showing false sincerity, pitied her misfortune. Wendy's eyes brimmed with unshed tears, her refusal to reveal such open weakness forcing her to cast them coldly aside with a gloved hand. She glared at her hands for a moment, vaguely noticing the tear stains upon their pristine whiteness. It would be a bitter irony if her beloved Henry were to see her in such a state upon their wedding day._

_Wendy sighed then, dispelling any thought of disapproval her fiancé may have in accordance to her momentary sadness. Her dejection and overall despondency of everything would be carried to her grave—despite the pleas of her family to forget such sorrow and regret, and to simply live. They had so wanted her happiness in this matter, even if she were not to wed a banker's son._

_In truth, it had been against her mother's secret wishes—that her only daughter marry a man who could inspire both awe and love in something that only they could understand—as opposed to her father's desires, which, in this pitiable instance, was wholeheartedly outspoken on the matter. Aunt Millicent's flagrant relief, combined with the resentment of her brothers, had only caused much animosity over her decision._

_Three out of eight of her beloved siblings—with the exception of John, who remained under the care of their embittered housekeeper, Liza—had yet to make an appearance; and the other four—including cousin Slightly—had come begrudgingly only under their father's firm direction. None had given her their consent, for each dared to look away from her the moment they entered the church. _

_Yet to Wendy, this cold slight was far worse than a cut direct, as it hurt her to feel ostracised by her own flesh and blood. They would never forgive her for this. Nor for the overall recklessness of tossing her future to the Four Winds, that changed ever so dramatically as the seasons themselves. Indeed, they believed her a fool to give her love so carelessly to a man who would, more often than not, shatter her already wounded heart. And perhaps their fears and inhibitions would prove to hold true, and she would be sorry for her rash acceptance in marrying a man she barely knew._

_Nevertheless, her decision would not be swayed, not even by the pleading looks her brothers had secretly concealed under their bitter masks of cold indifference. She would marry Henry, and find the life she was destined to live. And as she considered this, the wedding march—_her _wedding march—began its momentous suite. _

_It was time._

_And so it was that Wendy Moira Angela Darling stepped forward, her father magnanimously appearing at her side as both walked down the aisle that led to her ultimate destiny. Rows of people, dressed in the finest that London_'_s prestigious society could offer, watched her with rapt attention, her gown's train flowing in its ivory white grace behind her. None could even notice her pained limp, which remained carefully concealed by her determination and her father's aid. _

_Her ascent to the altar elapsed into seventy-five calculated seconds, her timing to meet her betrothed perfect and under the standardised time allotted to most brides, which always seemed to take longer in their advance to the church's altar. And yet, Wendy could not be more pleased as her eyes at last fell upon the man she promised herself to, the man she would soon share her life with. _

_Henry stood before her, clothed in a simple, yet elegant, grey suit, its finely-tailored trimmings fitted to noted perfection. And just as the suit made him the very image every aspiring bride could ever hope for in her betrothed on their wedding day, his assuring smile and air of confidence furthered this glorified illusion. In truth, he looked the part of a handsome prince, set to marry his faerie-tale princess. Wendy returned his tender smile and continued her waltz down the aisle. _

_She quietly breathed with hidden anticipation, her gentle bearing reflecting the poise she inherently conjured from within. She felt beautiful, treasured. And though she was not a famed princess hailed from one of her faerie stories she had discarded long ago, she still believed herself beautiful, if only for a day. Her smile faded then, for after such a day, would she find herself returned to her terrible, pitying state of an invalid. Her gait faltered—only momentarily—as she concealed her error with a touch of subtle grace. No one had even noticed her misstep; even her father whose eyes remained solely upon their destination, did not see her fleeting frailty._

_Nonetheless, Wendy continued as she walked towards the threshold that led to her future; a final affirmation between lowly maiden and highly-revered matron. The wedding march came to a dramatic standstill the moment her father relinquished her to the care of Henry, taking his seat alongside his still-ever-beautiful wife, whom he had managed to acquire by taking a cab and not running like the rest of the love-besotted fools who were after his darling's hand._

_Such knowledge was known to all of the Darling brood. And though passionately romantic as George Darling's pursuit of attaining the most sought-after lady in all of Mayfair, dare his daughter find herself inwardly regretting that her own engagement had not been as exciting. No, Henry had not been as romantic or creative in his courting of her. He had simply taken her to the ever-illustrious Kensington_ _Gardens_ _one strangely warm evening in November and, confessing his ardency under a quiet oak, placed the three-carat diamond engagement ring upon her finger. She had not even felt the exhilaration her mother must have when she accepted her own, which had been meticulously placed at thirty-three pounds ten, for such was the currency at the time._

_There was little doubt that Wendy's own ring cost far more than that of her mother's. Indeed, it would most likely surpass the value of half the city, as such was its worth. And she, who had been selected from a plethora of ladies who, rivalled her in both charm and grace, had been the one chosen to wear such a rare and priceless keepsake. A trinket. For that was all she had ever considered it to be—ever would consider it to be. She had no love for the band that now weighted down her hand; even its dull, clouded stone could not reflect a hint of affection._

_And though her conscience secretly implored her to heed this dire warning, she did not falter at her fiancé's side. No, it was of little importance what reason dared to invoke in her. For nothing could prevent this imminent consummation between man and wife. She then turned to see the face of her beloved, finding that her misgivings in marrying him had been inept in their persuading her to call off the wedding. Even the voice—who had ultimately abandoned her—was rendered silent in its protests. _

_She looked at Henry and smiled, despite her inner turmoil derived from a momentary lapse of uncertainty. He returned her subtle gesture in like manner, overtly pleased to see this small affection given. They held each other's gaze for the brief passing of second before the priest uttered the opening lines that would bind them forever…_

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…"

_Wendy obediently uttered the words that followed Henry's opening declaration. She stared at him, hearing the subtle resolve within his voice, the light timbre in his vow seemingly almost unwilling. She paused at this, puzzled by the lack of passion such an obvious declaration would entail. Nevertheless, she discounted this as she heard the minister proceed. _

"…If there be anyone present who may show just and lawful cause why this couple may not be legally wed, let him speak now or forever hold his peace…"

_No one uttered a word of objection. And for the instance of a traitorous second, Wendy dared to imagine such an altering occurrence to transpire. Nevertheless, all sat in silence, as no one—not even her dear brothers, who all looked to the ground in solemn dejection—spoke. And thus, the wedding proceeded—without reason to end its grand ceremony._

_The priest then bade the rings be shown, and Henry followed the holy man's suit as he dutifully and quite naturally placed the ring upon the third finger of his bride's left hand. Wendy thus imitated his salient action, repeating the words the priest uttered. She looked at Henry as she, confident in holding the ring—that would forever bind them—between steady fingers. Carefully she placed the band upon his awaiting finger, a deep, stifled sigh escaping her._

_The procession continued in its final lapse, as both were bound by the unity of their hands. The priest looked at them, gravely, his critical grey eyes bestowing only a deeply hidden concern for this outrageous choice of bride on his patron's part. But in the end, he said nothing, despite his own, personal objections to the union. And so, he uttered the final words that were truly needed…_

"Forasmuch as Henry and Wendy have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and—"

"_I object to this heresy thou callest a marriage!" a dark voice, filled with the fury of thousand raging fires, cried out into the ramparts._

_A shocked cry, emitted by all, along with a swarm of heads audibly turning to see the one who dared make such an objection, found a solitary figure from which could only be conjured from the world of dreams to stand, as both flesh and blood real, before all. Women muttered animatedly amongst themselves, while the men, who reigned in their supreme vow of silence, considered such a strange and anomalous figure. Even the groom turned to see the cause for such uproar on his wedding day. As the bride herself refused to follow her almost-husband's gaze, for she secretly knew whom the speaker was, as no one else had a voice so like that of the notorious pirate who once haunted her dreams. _

_Captain James Hook—the man who, to her growing horror, shared the same voice as the one who always comforted her—now moved with the graceful demeanour of a wronged demon towards the altar._

_And so numb and distraught was Wendy that she did not even notice his presence beside of her. She barely felt the rage that seethed and smouldered underneath his firm exterior. His attire, though strange and exotic in appearance and form, marked the trademark signature of his dreaded occupation. He looked every bit the pirate she remembered him as; and yet, at the same time, so different, as it was in that dreaded moment that she dared to look upon the face of the man who interrupted her wedding, and consequently shattered her dreams._

"_Might I enquire as to the reason for this protest?" the priest asked, his timid voice wavering in unspoken fear._

"_She is my betrothed," the stranger said simply, a mocking glare directed toward the now blanching groom. _

_Henry shook his head, now livid by such flagrant audacity. "How dare you, sir? You are _not _her betrothed, I assure you…whoever you are!" he visibly spat, disdainfully, and thus earning a gasp from Wendy. He glanced at her, briefly, before turning to face his nameless adversary once more. "My _wife"—_He used quite boldly, and then considered his enemy's elaborate scarlet clothing, his face moving into one of visible disgust—"would never associate herself with such…rabble."_

_The Quiller-Couch heir earned a gracious smile from the brooding interloper, a smile which was bathed in the most deadly of poison. "Indeed, it may seem as such," his rival drawled with false civility. "However, the truth remains as my testament." His attention drew towards Wendy, who now refused to acknowledge him. "She _is _my betrothed." His hook, which had remained hidden from all until now, raised and caused another wave of shock to emit throughout the secular hall of the church. He paid little attention to this noisome irritation, however, as his sight remained solely upon the one who dared to defy him. "Wendy," he whispered quietly, and offered her the offending appendage. "Come with me. It is time we depart." _

_But before Wendy could either accept or deny his request, Henry stepped in between them. "She will not go with you!" he cried, now affronted by this ill-turned change of events. "She is my wife!"_

_The stranger shifted his attention away from his ever-silent storyteller to regard the outraged nobleman, his harrowing gaze reflecting disapproval of the young man's words. "Thy…wife?" he thoughtfully questioned, as if trying to educate a wayward child. "I daresay that she is not, seeing as she was promised to me long ago. Truly, thou shouldst heed the truth on this matter." He raised his hook in emphasis. "Or wouldst thou prefer to question the validity of my word with the hook?" _

_Henry, if only obtaining one last vestige of wisdom, shook his head and stepped aside, defeated. He looked at Wendy—his eyes full of an unquenchable sorrow that bespoke his own cowardice—as he drew away, relinquishing her to the man who opposed their union. Wendy almost cried out against the unfairness and weakness now shown in the man she believed to be her match. Never before had she felt so alone and abandoned. And never before had she felt the fear and overall trepidation that the man, who now claimed his right as her betrothed, could instil in her. Dear God, she had fallen into complete madness._

"_Come, my dear," her newly-deemed fiancé whispered once more, before turning toward the rest of their captive audience. His eyes riveted over the massive sea of faces, which held the same, idiotic expression, their mouths left agape by what had transpired before them. He smiled darkly, revealing his innate pleasure of rendering such petty, mindless members of the aristocracy silent. Even Wendy's family was unable to speak in objection to his claim, as her brothers seemed to be quite satisfied by such a gratifying turn of events. _

_And with this stab of satisfaction, the pirate captain grasped Wendy's hand in his own, his words that followed echoing, "Let it be known that no one shall deny what is rightfully Captain James Hook's." The multitude gasped in horror, but he disregarded it, his interest lingering upon the trembling woman before him. _

_Wendy visibly paled under his scrutiny, feeling the sensation of vertigo overtake her, the darkness that she once welcomed now an ominous and dreaded figure. She looked at him, seeing that his eyes were fixed solely upon her, his eyes—those horribly, entrancing, damning eyes revealing only a fleck of something underneath the noted irritation and righteous fury—that seemed to taint the notable dark blue with a hellish crimson red._

_But despite this prominent show of anger found within his eyes, she saw something more, akin to a sense of longing that she, too, felt at times. Could this devil—this man—who once forced her to an inevitable death off the end of a plank, feel the same human emotions as she? Could he feel the loneliness that, at times, surrounded her until it took her last breath? She almost dared to believe that he could._

_For just as she considered such an unlikely possibility, she felt him shift in his stance, his smooth hand tenderly caressing her cheek._ _She looked at him in apparent disbelief, and her mouth opened to speak. Deft fingers fell against her lips, silencing her by their gentle touch. The captain stared at her, considering her, the crimson that once tainted his eyes now exempt by the unforgettable shade of forget-me-not blue. _

_He looked at her for a moment longer until his face inclined and fell a mere fraction of an inch in front of her own. His lips curved into a forced, solemn smile before he closed the distance between them. His words, which breathed across her lips, echoed a final, condemning dénouement to this earth-shattering dream: "It is time for you to awaken, my beauty."_

_And so, the idyllic world in which Wendy imagined as real collapsed, plunging her into everlasting darkness, her stifled cries of despair unheard by those who dissipated into the nightmare shadows of her darkest dreams, as she herself was purged from the realm of eternal sleep, only to crash upon the cruel, forbidding shores of consciousness…_

…

And out of the haze of dreams dare she find herself caught in between. She lay, betwixt south of Heaven and north of Hell, her soul ripped from its moorings as it floated in a state of numbed suspension within the realm of her deathlike slumber. And thus, Wendy lay helpless, her mind torn between worlds.

Voices, disjointed by a cacophony of garbled sounds, echoed like a deranged mantra. She whimpered in apparent pain, feeling the noisome sting that broke and splintered her mind's eye with the foreshadowing images of what must never be.

Such pain, such relentless agony wrought throughout her, her meagre form rocking against the tidal waves that her dreams affected. She cried out against the maddening torrent, almost drowning in the cold black tide that flowed and ebbed against her thoughts.

_Oh, please, someone—anyone—save me!_ the remnants of her tattered mind begged. _Someone take me away from all of this pain!_

And it was with this desperate cry that she no longer felt herself alone, as the dark waters within her mind receded, the black storm diminishing into a cloud of emptiness. She sighed in relief, her dreamlike state broken by the gentle, lulling murmurings of a voice all too familiar. Wendy's eyes opened in shock as she heard her beloved comforter speak:

_Close your eyes and turn all thoughts toward me, _ma belle, it gently commanded.

Wendy shook her head in weakened defiance, now recalling the face which belonged to the voice. Her dream had been shattered, broken by the one who sought to create it, mould it, and make it into a glorious fabrication in which both she and it ultimately desired. At a time, she would not have cared who was truly behind the voice, for such knowledge was of little importance to her. But now that she knew the face behind the illusion, she could not bear to hold further conversation with a heartless murderer.

"I cannot," she muttered dejectedly. "I know _who_ you are!" And even though she did not acknowledge the name with the voice, she cried solemnly, the tears within her eyes falling into defeat at last.

The voice remained silent for a moment, undeterred by her refusal to utter its name. It regarded her quietly within her mind, its ever-patient presence remaining in an enduring state of persistence. Hearing her cries of rejection, combined with the overall disbelief that her once-beloved comforter could be nothing more than a most hated and despised villain moved it to console her, nonetheless.

_Nevertheless, I shall not leave you, _it returned with firm resolve; and its tone, which reflected that of a modernised idiom—as it strangely had the day before—softened to a notable degree. _You cannot fight against that which has already been set into motion. _

"Yes, I can," she objected, though it pained her to speak.

The voice within her mind gently sighed. _Thou art brave, _ma belle. _But you have not the strength to fight me. Give in, and submit to me,_ it tenderly persuaded. _Your_ _pain shall cease and be no more. Stop fighting what you know to be true. _

A deep, almost regretful sigh escaped her then. Could it be so simple as to give in to this man's gentle coercion, even when she very well assumed who he truly was? To give in, to surrender herself to this entity, would be her end. She would have no free will after this moment, no chance of escape from him. He would have her forever, she knew. And he would not let her go, not this time.

Ever so gently, Wendy shook her head, her adamant tenacity breaking against her desire to concede. "I…cannot," she murmured against her will. _Even if I wish to, I could never yield; never break under this man, though he has always been there for me…_

_But you wish to, do you not? You wish to leave this world filled with pain and misery, to find happiness, security—all of which you have often spoken to me of_, it said, after reading her disjointed thoughts.

"But I cannot! Do you not see that?" she asked, exasperated. "If I give in to you, then it would mean my surrender, and I cannot do it!"

_Then would you prefer that I leave you to your self-inflicted misery? For I shall, if you pursue with this foolishness. _It paused for a thoughtful moment, allowing her to consider what it was saying, what it was _offering_. It held onto this silence like a lifeline, until deftly whispering, _But you have only to say my name, and I shall remain with you until the ending of the world. You have only to choose which you desire most: my promise to stay with you, or your well-beloved solitude._

With this, the voice paused for the breadth of an unsettling moment, and then gracefully added, _What shall it be, _ma belle: _my eternal companionship, or a lifetime of emptiness? _

It halted in its sincere avowal, awaiting her answer.

Wendy felt the gravity behind the voice's words, its idle threat disheartening her. She knew it spoke the truth, even if she did not wish to acknowledge it. And much to her regret, she felt the last of her resolve shatter, and her dark head drew down in admitted defeat.

"No," she whispered brokenly, "I do not wish for you to leave. I no longer want to be…alone."

The voice revealed a carefully concealed smile. _Then_ s_ay it, my beauty,_ it pressed, the cultured English accent coming forth at last. _Say_ _my name, Wendy, my _true _name. And you shall never be alone again._

The urgency within his tone compelled Wendy to submit to his desire, cast aside her freewill, and give in to him completely. She considered this, briefly, before deciding her fate: to reject her life here and those who could never truly understand her, or to deny the one who had always been there for her—the one who understood her completely. Her decision was, in the end, quite simple.

And without further thought or concern for her actions, or the consequences that would most certainly be derived from them, Wendy said her beloved comforter's name, before falling into a permanent state of oblivion:

"James."

And it was then, that all of the lights in the Darling home went out.

…

It is no surprise that Mrs. Darling, in that instant, chose to return to her daughter's room, her mother's intuition warning her that something with her beloved child was amiss—for all mothers know when something is wrong with their children. And it was with this unnameable and most upsetting sense of dread that the Matron of the Darling household chose to enter the dark room without concern of her own person, her mind drifting to a thousand and one frightening possibilities that something—or rather, s_omeone_—in this room had been the cause of the unnatural rift within the otherwise tranquil home.

She opened the door, her dulcet voice calling out to her daughter. She paused for a moment, waiting, as the heavy silence within the shadows greeted her. Concerned now, she scarcely noticed her husband's flustered presence behind her, his awkwardness reflecting his own worry, for he had been through this strife before, when his children had left without word or care for their faulted parents' distress upon that starlit night so long ago.

George Darling followed in behind his wife's cautious footsteps, blinded by the darkness that came before the dawn. He glanced about the room, noticing that nothing seemed out of place until his meagre observation was halted by his wife's soul-shattering scream. He stumbled in the shadows, moving to her side. "What is it?" he asked, his spectacled eyes widening in concern. "What is the matter?"

Mary Darling shook her head, her reluctant gaze shifting towards the window, the pearl necklace held tightly within her white hand. Her husband gasped in pained realisation, as the caustic actuality of what had transpired in this dark and sinister room came to light at last. For there, at the arched threshold of the casement, lay the answer to the unfathomable riddle of their missing daughter. For within its translucent paned surface, the truth came forth in a horrible, dismal, blinding reality: the way of childhood innocence had been shut, the window barred.

…

**Author's Note: And so it seems that there shall be no wedding, after all. (But I am sure everyone could surmise _that_ from the previous chapter!) I almost shudder to think of how Wendy's dear parents will explain their daughter's disappearance. Surely they cannot say that a flying boy or a vengeful pirate captain took her. What would the world be coming to, then?**

**But all good humour aside, I would like to apologise for this chapter being so agonisingly long. I did not mean for it to be this length. Yet it seems that my writing tends to be as such. As I make no promises for short chapters. However, each individual chapter _will_ be significant in itself, as each will impart a crucial piece to the overall story. _That_ is something I can promise. **

**Yet I digress, this chapter can truly be considered the beginning of a story one can only imagine. Where it is that Wendy may actually have that one, last adventure she is searching for—though not how she intended, and not the one she imagined it with. **

**And, Xandraghazia, you are right, it _is_ Hook! You were right on the mark with the voice, as I now must also address the question most likely raging through everyone's mind: is our beloved heroine _insane_ to accept such a strange and most irregular proposal?! Perhaps. But in truth, I must make mention that, given the circumstances of her present state in the story, added to the fact that she is still partially unconscious, Wendy is quite out of her mind, delirious. She does not realise what she is doing by agreeing to Hook's offer. In truth, she has _no idea _whatsoever. Otherwise, she would have most likely rejected him; and thus, chosen a lifetime of solitude over his company.**

**As such, I am sure that I may have lost a few people with this chapter. I hope and pray that I have not, though. I honestly tried to make it as clear and concise as possible, without intentionally giving something vital away. Though I can promise, for those who stay with me, that this story will be unlike any other. Especially at the level it will be taken—with a more, romantic angle, as there is bound to be many an intriguing conversation between Wendy and the captain. **

**Anyway, I must explain a few things, since I know that they need to be addressed…**

**All right, I will first say that it is now quite clear about Wendy not being crazy. But how the voice managed to turn out to be none other than the notorious Captain James Hook will be explained at a later time. Wendy, as well with the rest of us, will come to that knowledge as the story progresses. **

**Also, the sequence in which Wendy's wedding is interrupted is just a dream, brought on by the unexplainable chain of headaches she has. The notion of this part is rather important. And since there is most certainly a method behind my madness, I will further explain the reason of the dream in later chapters. I fear that I gave too much in this chapter away, anyhow… **

**On a final note, I know that there were certain things in this chapter, which need not have been mentioned, like Wendy's affinity to the music box she lost. Even though it seems trivial and just time-consuming to read this type of thing, I ask everyone to please bear in mind that I do not write things without a reason. If something to this effect is mentioned, please be wary of it. Certain aspects of the story, even those small and trivially noted, can have a major impact on the plot and the characters themselves.**

**And once again, my eternal thanks to those who have read and reviewed! Your comments, thoughts, and ideas are very much appreciated! Thanks again!**


	4. Chapter Three: Becomes the Captive Bride

Disclaimer: I do not own _Peter Pan_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners.

Promise of the Last Kiss

Chapter Three

"_James."_

_That one name, that one beautifully condemning name, had been uttered in a state of momentary madness. The desire to evoke such an ill-omened entity merely invited unwelcome imaginings born of a time she had almost forsaken. Her innocence had been questioned of its legitimacy then, the white strands of purity dulled to an ashen grey hue by the inexorable passage of time as an aeon passed within a scant second. So it was where even time, in all of its fleeting wonder, conjured the worst of these long-forgotten demons: the ebony cast of a dour crimson stained by the rusted, blood-covered edge of a hook; and eyes, a dark, fathomless shade of blue, like the dramatic colour of the forget-me-not, echoed the silent desire of their captive's awakening._

_And as such, a moment, which held the whole of existence within it, seemed to have passed into a listless eternity as all thought, all rational belief in a faithless conviction that bewailed only tattered hope fell to the ever-growing need to stir from the transient sphere of sleep. For it was within this languid state of paralysed suspension that all fell to the sinister mercies of a temporary reprieve, many of which who dared attempt such adversity finding themselves trapped in a wasteland of nightmares contrived by their own, self-appointed guilt—the onslaught of pain, worry, and fear often accompanying them, and so intensifying their terror of a world that lay beyond the borders of reality. _

_For this it was for those who fell to such an unfortunate fate, and were thus forced to endure a hell of their own making, as it was a world in which nightmares thrived, torturing those who could not forgive themselves in life. And thus, one who had needed never to have fallen into the gentle, lulling arms of Hypnos stirred, awakening to the world around her…_

Wendy groaned against the fettered remains of her arcane slumber, the satiny surface beneath her seeming to shift and move as all else collided against an unknown adversary that remained cloaked in a garment of ambiguity. She fought against the muddle within her aching mind, the nebulous cloud of confusion refusing to diminish, as the dark sensations of a night's dreaming moved forward, transcending above the Morphean realm of sleep and dreams.

She opened her eyes with marked hesitance, her sight distorted to the world around her. Only an evanescent glow of warm candlelight banished the nightmare shadows, allowing the fleeting images of her sleep fade as all else, real and tangible, came into view. Her eyes widened then, and a sharp gasp escaped her; a new nightmare, created by her worst fear, made into being.

For there, as she lay upon the soft confines of a foreign bed, dare she find herself no longer in the secure sanctuary of her room. A myriad of trinkets, both rare and unusual, were cast scrupulously about the shelves, tables, and window casements—all of which were bolted and secured against the seemingly unending sway that rocked beneath the massive room even now.

She gasped in feigned wonder, her eyes trained upon the looming cavity that confined her. Wood, stained to a brilliant mahogany finish, encompassed the room in a rich, dark hue that complemented the fine, exotic furnishings. Drapes, almost as dark as sackcloth, obscured the room from the presence of light. Indeed, everything seemed as if it had been prepared for her arrival, even down to the last candlestick, which vibrantly burned against the lingering shadows. A faint memory stirred within her mind and her eyes widened in recognition, for the room itself—which was most certainly a ship's private cabin—looked very much like one on the…

Wendy barely contained the surprise and utter shock that came after the initial awe of finding herself trapped in the lair of her darkest adversary once more.

"It cannot be," she whispered to herself, still hesitant of the truth that lay so profoundly before her. "It was just a nightmare; just a terrible, waking nightmare. I am _not_ on the _Jolly Roger_." She shook her head in disbelief. "It is impossible…"

And with this professed assurance, Wendy pulled away from the bed, freeing herself of its satiny restraints. She stumbled in the dim candlelight, staggering towards the door that lay to the other side of the room. Her eyes glared at its imposing wooden frame, her hands levelling against its dark surface, and finding the latch that secured the lock. She frowned at the ironwork mechanism, knowing that her attempt to escape was futile; the door was locked from without, not within. And she thus found herself inwardly despairing even more with this crude insight.

A moment passed with heady anticipation, and her dark head inclined in silent defeat. For there she remained, standing ever so dejectedly before the unyielding door. She did not even notice the slight click and turn of a key before the latch moved upward from its fixed position and a column of light, in the form of a tarnished lantern, entered the dreary cabin.

"Ah, Miss Wendy, what are ye standin' here fer, now, when ye should very well be restin'?" a kind, vaguely familiar voice asked, apparently flustered.

The lady in question withdrew from her momentary dismay, seeing a tired, weary face looking haggard and guarded before her.

"Mr. Smee," Wendy quietly acknowledged, before taking a cautious step away from his now concerned figure.

The older man nodded in greeting, ignorant of her subtle aversion of him. He moved forward then, a beaming smile replacing his worried frown.

"Aye, 'tis me, Miss Wendy," he said, and then looked at her appraisingly. "My, how ye've grown," he commented with a note of approval. "As I recall, ye were jest a wee, young lass when we last had ye aboard. Indeed, ye have turned inta quite the lady, miss; and a very lovely one, at that."

Wendy blushed under his complimenting assessment, finding it almost sincere. "Thank you, Mr. Smee. You are most kind to regard me so highly after…everything," she reluctantly murmured, recalling how her last time aboard had left more unpleasant memories than good. She glanced at him, secretly sighing. Undoubtedly her questions of her being here would most certainly put the juvenile Smee into a fluster, as she would inevitably question what grounds her presence on the ship—for she was most certain she was onboard—were. And though she was loath to ask it of him, since his kindness seemed most genuine, she had to know why she was here, nonetheless.

"Mr. Smee, why am I—"

"Oh, come along now, Miss Wendy," he interceded, bidding her to return to the bed. He ushered her with true concern of her person, lest she ask something he could not answer. Wendy almost stumbled by his unyielding urgency as he remanded her to at least sit. "Ye must rest after sech a long an' arduous journey. God only knows that ye need it after…" He hesitated briefly, but continued. "After what that horrid fiend tried in fercing yer hand." He shook his head, agitatedly, and allowed a mild curse to bridge the incoherency in his actions. Wendy merely gaped at his words, dumbfounded.

"I fear that I do not understand…" she tried to say, but was interrupted once more.

"Now, now," the bo'sun gently scolded. "Old Smee knows what ye must have went through—those horrid demons taking ye away from here an' causing the master grief over ye, an' then fercing ye ta wed some penniless vagrant. 'Twas by good fortune that the master found out an' rescued ye. I can only imagine what a poor lass like ye must have suffered afore the master came."

"The master?" Wendy thoughtfully questioned, earning a quizzical look from the Irishman.

The bo'sun considered her, somewhat amusedly. For it must be known that Smee, not one to withstand any surprise set before him, allowed a slight gasp to convey his meagre astonishment. _Surely this child remembered the master,_ thought he, as his master often spoke of her during the dusky, twilight hours before dawn. As it was those same, riddling conversations with his usually, broodingly derisive master, though somewhat lost to memory, nevertheless allowed him a confident optimism to set his mistress at ease.

With this perilous endeavour, he smiled, pleased to enlighten to her. "Why, Master James, of course! Surely ye remember him, Miss Wendy. He even asked ye ta join us here, on the _Jolly Roger_, remember?" he said at length, inwardly praying that the girl recognised her saviour at last.

Alas, she did not.

"Master James?" Wendy dutifully echoed, before adding, "Do you mean Captain Hook?" And once again, she earned a staggered intake of breath from the finicky bo'sun.

Smee's ruddy complexion paled under the dim lantern-light, and his once-still composure quavered like a condemned man brought before his execution. He looked at her, condescendingly, his spectacled gaze reflecting disbelief and anger.

"Oh, Miss Wendy, ye must never utter that vile man's name ever again," he muttered, almost incoherently. "What would possess a fine lass like ye ta compare my good master wit' a heartless murderer?" he asked, his grey eyes clouding over in maddened denial, before their stony gaze cut through her like a dulled knife. "Master James is _nothing_ like that villain, do ye understand, girl? How can ye think that, when he saved ye an' brought ye here under his protection?"

Wendy drew back at his words, her eyes widening with unspoken fear. An unsteady breath became lodged in her throat, and she felt the sharp sting of apprehension raze her bended spine. She could scarcely discern the boatswain's incomprehensible meaning. Even as she watched him now, she listened, hearing his disjointed banter, his inarticulate mutterings conveying that his master and the notorious captain of her stories were not the same entity, but two different beings entirely. Even the slight mention of the captain had been most dreadful, as Smee's palpable kindness became nothing less than absolute hatred.

In truth, the old seaman frightened her. Even more, she began to question the validity of his own sanity, for all rational thought and sense of the word seemed to have vanished, abandoning him completely. And for this most grave and tragic of misfortunes, Wendy found herself actually pitying this ruin of a once knowledgeable mind.

"Of course he is not, Mr. Smee," she placated softly. Smee turned to look at her, his mumbling ceasing at her gentle admission. And seeing his momentary compliance, she continued. "I must have mistaken your master for someone else, seeing as it has been quite some time since my last visit here." She looked up to see his wounded expression, a vague, reassuring smile pleading for him to understand. "I can only ask that you overlook my fault, and forgive me in mistaking your master. Truly, I must apologise for my ignorance."

A wavering smile returned to the bo'sun's weathered face. "No need fer that, Miss Wendy," he replied, a trace of sanity leaching into his diction. "I can understand yer confusion, knowin' that ye've not seen him since that terrible mishap wit' his ship an' all. An' that crocodile…" He shook his head, as if the memory itself pained him. "'Tis a wonder that he even survived, what wit' his arm missing an' all, the poor lad. 'Tis no surprise why he wanted ye safe wit' him, finding that ye needed his aid." His spectacled gaze found hers, and a brief passing of true admiration crossed his ragged features. "It gave him a reason to live, ye know."

The captive bride—as Wendy now deemed herself to be—gaped, her faint smile fading as she tried to grasp this imperceptible knowledge. Smee's words surprised her, baffled her with a thousand unuttered cruelties inspired by one from without. She inwardly frowned, considering. For what had he meant when he said that his master had a reason to live? she silently questioned. Better yet, why did she find herself so curious as to understand the method behind this insane pirate's ravings of a man who had once sought to destroy everything she had ever loved? She could find no answer, as there was none to validate this new absurdity.

Curious now, she opened her mouth to speak, to question what the bo'sun had meant, but was regrettably silenced once again.

"But come along now, Miss Wendy, ye need a bit of rest afore seein' the master. Said he wanted ye ta rest yerself—since ye were plain passed out in his arms when ye came." His vague smile widened significantly when he added, "An' then old Smee will take ye up on deck, what do ye say?"

Wendy nodded without hesitation, finding that she could not refuse such an _agreeable_ and most _advantageous_ offer. And with this, she truly smiled, plotting her next move in her desire to escape.

And like the lady that had been instilled within her, she managed a mask that could beguile even the greatest of perceivers—as it must be confessed that all Darling women could hold such a glorious fabrication and execute its alluring subtleties with a mastery second to none. For Wendy, who had inherited this auspicious trait from her own mother, employed it well as she artfully smiled, a plan born in that lovely mind. For with the graceful tact of one born of her gentle bearing, she nodded to the anxious boatswain, and, mustering the greatest of her ladylike charm and cultured grace, simply agreed.

"It would be my greatest pleasure, Mr. Smee."

…

Three hours had passed since the bo'sun's promise to her, and Wendy found herself compromised by the slight turning of a key, that inevitably led to her ultimate freedom. The familiar face of the old seaman greeted her in kind as he entered, and she smiled graciously in turn, relieved that he had kept his promise, after all.

"Have ye rested yerself, miss?" he asked, a hint of casual curiosity overlaying his true concern.

The captive bride nodded. "Yes, I have. Thank you," she murmured in appreciation, though not fully going into detail of her slumber. The nightmares that had engulfed those precious hundred and eighty minutes of rest still antagonised her, berating her with an ever-fixed obsession of her worst fear. And though she still felt the lingering traces of a dread that jolted her from sleep, she could not recall the figure that haunted her, only its eyes, which seemed to stare out into the infinite, before setting its sight upon her; its eyes, which were a feral mixture of both recognition and hate, the golden ferocity outweighing the calming blue within its dual gaze.

She had never seen such eyes before; as their unnatural hue and radiance was all that she remembered in the dream. As it was with this memory, albeit vague in its entirety, that she felt the slightest apprehension in leaving the cabin's newly-deemed sanctuary, not knowing what awaited her on the once-bloodstained deck that lay beyond the door. A deep, almost hesitant sigh escaped her as she considered this, her pensive stare becoming thoughtful when she looked upon the wrinkled mass that encased her. It would be most impractical to devise a plan to escape, to manoeuvre around the ship in full wedding regalia. And with this, she sighed, this time without restraint.

"Is something amiss, Miss Wendy?" Smee questioned, pulling the girl back to reality.

Wendy faintly coloured at her inattention. "Oh, do forgive me," she began timidly, and shyly glanced at the perplexed boatswain. "I just remembered that my gown may be difficult to move about the ship in." Her hand nervously gestured toward the massive satin gown. "If you could permit me your arm when we are up on deck?" She looked at him imploringly, beseechingly. "I would be most grateful."

Smee's confused expression changed abruptly to one of understanding. "Oh, of course, Miss Wendy," he said without hesitance. "I should've remembered ta have asked ye about that." He shook his head derisorily, and offered her his arm. He smiled when she took it. "Cannot have the master upset wit' me fer allowin' ye ta get hurt under me watch. Told me ta take care of ye afore he awoke. Said he wanted ta see ye this evenin', he did. But come along, now; the crew is waitin' ta see ye, miss."

The bo'sun smiled triumphantly; ignoring his charge's paling expression as he led her out of the cabin and into the world above. Wendy staggered behind him, gingerly concealing her limp by way of the weighted gown. Her guardian did not seem to notice, however, as his attention flitted to that of his fellow crewmates. "Gentl'men, Miss Darling has 'wakened," he called out to the men labouring about the deck, heralding his cry to those in the riggings. "Come an' see the lady our good master has saved!"

And as the boatswain uttered these words, all eyes turned toward the one in question. Wendy nearly blanched, seeing a myriad of faces, their eyes fixed solely upon her. She drew back, almost instinctively, at their enquiring gazes. Her eyes darted to the safety of the wooden deck, its once glorious finish now weathered away, decayed by the wear of time. She then recalled her passing notice of the overall condition of the ship: its once massive sails of immaculate white, now grey and interlaced with a patchwork of rends and tears; the riggings barely suitable to sustain the foundations of the ship; the mast, down to the keel, engulfed in a grim, darkening finish that only ghost ships were rumoured to have.

But in spite of the disturbing imagery that lay so slovenly before her, she withheld all thoughts on the ruined vessel, refusing to acknowledge any who dared pose a question of her being there, within _their_ presence. She ignored them, fully aware that her rudeness was not spurred from her revulsion, but her overall shock of seeing the same, lifeless expression on each face—as she had done with the ship's fallen majesty.

It was like staring at the grim visage of Death, the same, soulless look found within each, as all shared the deathly pallor of one long since dead. The dark circles under their eyes were a morose shade of violet, as was the yellow, almost paper-like texture of their skin, which took on a sickeningly yellow hue, and thus enhancing their already grotesque features. Never before had she seen one take on the look of the dead. And yet, these men—whatever they once were—seemed very much alive.

But strangest of all, was to hear their stifled whispering, that seemed to resonate the same, disjointed belief—which was oddly filled with both the passing grief and utter dejection of a lost soul bereaved of something indefinable. They looked at her, questionably, their gazes thus cast timidly away, as their mutterings echoed the same, unalterable conviction: innocent. Wendy passively discerned the word before the witless bo'sun disrupted their idle murmurings.

"Miss Wendy, I'd like ta introduce ye ta our good crew," Smee said, jolting her out of her thoughts.

She silently nodded, reluctantly awaiting introductions as she forced herself to look upon each face and not flinch in fright. Whereas a gentle Smee, seeing her compliance, presented the first without further protest.

"This fine fellow here is Adrian McManus, a well and able seaman." He then nodded to the dark-headed man who was obscured by the one introduced. "An' his brother, Declan, who helps man the guns an' support the riggings. Good workers, the both of 'em; an' Irish, like me," he beamed proudly. Wendy kindly smiled, noticing their fraternal resemblance—albeit different in face, colouring, and appearance as they were—as they bowed to her, taking their leave.

The boatswain continued without fault, introducing her to the next, who was allegedly a nobleman. "An' this is _Monsieur_ Gilles de Fronsac, a marquis."

The assumed nobleman winked at her, and Wendy had the grace to blush. "A pleasure, _mademoiselle_, truly," he said, his long, golden-blonde hair swaying rakishly in the hollow breeze, thus revealing the refined countenance of one who indeed belonged to the noble aristocracy. "I am delighted that our captain has finally decided to grace us with one so beautiful and fair as you, _ma fleur_. Indeed, we have long been without such beauty, here." He placed a chaste kiss upon her hand, smiling impishly. "You may call me Gilles, _mademoiselle_, as I am your humble and most obedient servant."

"_Monsieur le_ Marquis," Smee quietly warned. "Save yer empty compliments fer yer other dockside loves, unless ye wish ta address 'em wit' the master."

The marquis slightly paled under the bo'sun's harsh reprimand. "_Me pardoner, mademoiselle_,"—He hastily cast a nervous glance at Smee—"I did not intend any insincerity on my part, _Monsieur _Smee," he apologised profusely, earning a forgiving smile from Wendy, and an irritated look from Smee.

"Be off wit' ye, then," Smee coldly dismissed. "As I recall, ye still have yet ta finish yer duties in the kitchen, _marquis_."

"_Oui_, good _monsieur_," the noble Frenchman quietly agreed, and then looked at Wendy, the slight traces of a smile forming at his well-defined lips. "And I fear that I must bid you a pleasant evening, _mademoiselle_. I can promise you, though, that tonight's dinner will be _un plaisir merveilleux_!"

"Enough of yer horrid French drivel, marquis! See ta Miss Wendy's dinner, _an'_ the master's," the boatswain barked, annoyed as the nobleman issued a final good-bye before disappearing below deck. Smee sighed, muttering something about the vulgar decorum of the French and their perverse nature in humanly gestures, but then ordered for the rest who, watching their fellow crewmate patiently and somewhat bemusedly, awaited their turn.

Smee furthered introductions, naming off every gunner and ship's hand from lowest rank to highest. Wendy was left utterly mystified by the long list of foreign names, which could scarcely be repeated, even in her Latin tongue. Most came from Russia and lands from both east and west, as all looked different in face and form, yet still retained the withdrawn look of death. It unnerved her, though comforted her in a way; she felt no ill intent from any she met, as all seemed truly delighted by her presence onboard, some of which even praised her being there and the captain's valiant effort in saving her. She smiled at this, reluctantly withholding the truth, lest they be discouraged of something they so fervently believed in. She would thus deal with the _kind_ and _gracious_ Captain Hook in her own time. For now, she only wished to give her attention to the men before her, who so lavished her with compliments and true intrigue of her presence.

"Thank you," she murmured in kind to them, noticing that many still awaited their chance to meet her.

"An' this is Alasdair Vane, Scottish laird an' quartermaster," Smee regarded the astute man whose lean, deadened complexion contradicted his elevated status. "He will be the one we depend on fer navigatin' the ship, usin' his _scientific _devices."

The lord, though an unrepentant Scot at heart, nodded to her, and bowed with a true, aristocratic air. "Indeed, always a pleasure tae meet sech a fine lady, miss. I look forward tae travelin' with sech a bonny lass, seeing as I can already mark ye as one bein' spirited fer adventure. Maybe ye can help me navigate sometime." He winked at her through the wild shocks of his dark auburn hair, and thus receiving a quiet glare from Smee. "But that will be up tae the captain tae decide, since sech a fine lass is in his noble charge," he amended for the benefit of the bereft bo'sun.

Smee posed an aggravated snort concerning the Scotsman's strident civility, and continued without delay. "An' the man beside of him is the one responsible fer teachin' him ta use sech devil witchery."

The vilified man turned toward Smee, his solemn, spectacled gaze conveying mild irritation. "Mr. Smee; for the last time, my devices are _not_ pagan relics, as you deem them; they are modern devices used solely for navigation, not witchcraft," he firmly corrected, adjusting the spectacles over his brown eyes and brushing away a wayward strand of his equally dark hair. He then turned to Wendy and smiled. "My apologies, miss," he acknowledged, and nodded in greeting. "I am Joshua Crane, ship's surgeon and—"

"An' naturalist, an' astronomer, an' philosopher," Smee interjected with a tired sigh, and then grinned at Wendy. "He thinks that the stars can be used fer more than jest navigatin'. He even has Lord Vane here, believin' it." The two men in question exchanged a congenial sigh, their attention, though, remaining kindly upon Wendy.

"Astronomy, sir?" Wendy lightly questioned, seeing the physician's eyes brighten in apparent delight.

"Yes, miss. I study the stars, the planets, even the sun itself." He shook his head, apparently amazed by her curiosity of the heavenly bodies he had once devoted his education—and his life—to. "Do…you take an interest in them?" he asked, seemingly hopeful.

Wendy slightly frowned at him, however, remembering. "I used to, as a child," she admitted forlornly, her attention shamefully cast to the deck. After a thoughtful pause her gaze shifted, and she looked once more at the physician, her dark eyes vacant of emotion. "But I fear that my fascination for them has long since abandoned me."

"Oh, of course," the doctor concurred, though lamentably. "Well, should you ever desire to see them again, I have a telescope onboard," he offered with a fragment of hope in his voice. "Perhaps you will find your fascination in seeing them once again, miss."

The captive bride returned his offer with her thoughtful consideration, earning a hopeful smile from him. She looked at him, and then noticed his attire, which resembled something that a London physician would wear, albeit ninety years before. Even the notable lord beside of him marked the style of the Regency, a wondrous time now only known to the pages of history.

Wendy veiled her own disbelief. True, that the pirates here were a marvellous representation of piracy in its golden age; but to see a man wearing clothing closely resembling something akin to a period before her own time, astounded her. Even so, as she began to notice the rest of the crew, she realised that they represented different periods in history, as some even mirrored that of the Sun King's illustrious court with their noble style and courtly elegance.

Indeed, it seemed as if there was more to this hideous nightmare than she had originally believed. And it was with this realised truth that she truly became frightened. For what devious plan did her captor intend, as he devised what part she had to play in this tangled web of suppressed vengeance? She could only fathom what twisted design the maimed pirate had planned before another stood before her, this time locking gazes and shattering her present thoughts as he made his arresting presence known.

She scarcely recovered from the initial shock of being purged from her thoughts, though her eyes moved ever so steadily to the one who dared to disturb her. And thus, Wendy, finally hazarding a glance toward the stranger, was taken aback by his awe-astounding presence. Her present ire vanished as she was found inexorably drawn to the captivating pull of his eyes; dark, they were, dim as twilight, and inviting. But to what unspoken invitation, though, she did not know, only feeling the lingering appeal of one who shared a rarity that she herself often despised—as no one else, with the exception of her beloved mother and John, had been gifted—or rather, cursed amongst her willowy London peers—with such vagrant colouring.

Pale olive skin complimented his sable locks of hair, enhancing his features with the darkening allure of a displaced _émigré_, who had been exiled from society, banished from the harrowing strictures of civilisation. But for what charge, she knew not. For they were in the boundaries of the Neverland, she had to remind herself, and would thus have no need to question his being here, as she could not account for her own presence in the land of unending childhood.

All the same, she felt his eyes upon her, his shadowy gaze ever-questioning, wondering. She dimly flushed under his scrutiny, yet concealed it under a carefully constructed façade, smiling assertively at this man who dared to intimidate her. "And who might you be, sir?" she asked, arching a defiantly-sculpted brow. "I fear that I have not had the pleasure of knowing your name yet."

"That is because I have not given it," he answered simply, his eyes brightening in amusement.

"Indeed," Wendy returned in like manner.

Smee, who silently stood at Wendy's side, let out a good-natured groan. "Miss Wendy, this wry young rogue in front of ye is Grey Lovel—even though we have yet ta know his _real_ name—ship's gunner an' watchman," he casually interjected, subtly placing himself at a notable distance between them.

The watchman smirked, giving a genial nod to the bo'sun. "Well said, Smee," he incurred with a laugh. "Although you very well know _why_ I cannot tell you my real name." He turned to Wendy in means of explanation. "'Tis a family tradition, miss. One in which I can only hope that you understand."

She nodded in understanding. "Of course, sir," she murmured, her smile brightening at the amiable exchange between crewmates. It was a far cry from the chaos that the original crew of the _Jolly Roger_ inspired her last time here. Indeed, it seemed that these men, though disquieting at first by their corpselike appearance, were more civilised and trustworthy than the slew of cutthroats that boasted of Hook's original crew, which naturally fell, one by one, at the hands of Peter and the Lost Boys. Even her own brothers had taken part in their extermination. Michael had even beamed at his felling of one on the very deck she stood on now.

The thoughts and still-vivid memories of she and her brothers and their time in the Neverland made her instinctively yearn for the comforting feel of them, the security of her home, and everything she inherently knew, down to when Liza snuffed out the last candle before the Darling household retired for the night. She silently longed to return to that state of normalcy, and, almost forgetting her original purpose in accepting Smee's proposal, the possibility of once again finding herself rescued by Peter Pan, whose come-hither smile—no matter how much she wished to deny it—still enchanted her in ways that only her child's heart could ever know. She barely heard someone say her Christian name, given the circumstances of her presence here.

"Miss Wendy," the watchman curiously urged, frowning until he noticed her momentary reflection, and smiled. "Miss Darling, if you would not mind my asking you a question?"

Wendy, upon hearing her name for the second time, turned to face her addresser. She blushed heavily under his amused gaze, a silent pardon on her behalf. "And what would that be, sir?"

"I kindly ask if you would set aside this considerate formality—as I deserve no such title—and call me Grey." He saw her blush deepen and returned her timidity with a teasing grin. "I speak for all of the others, as they were too missish to ask you."

At this, Wendy laughed. She then looked at the crew whose expressions bore the same, condemning chagrin of being given away. Taking immense pleasure at their expense, she beheld all in her sight. "All right," she gently conceded, giving into their unified entreaty. "I will honour your wish, gentlemen," she said magnanimously, and then heard a resounding praise from the crew. Her innate joy, however, was cut short as all went silent, their already pale faces becoming whiter, deader as the foreboding silence drew on into the once jubilant crowd.

Confusion marred Wendy's flawless face as she tried to discern the cause of the crew's sudden change in mood. Inwardly, she despaired, already knowing the answer. For there, within the secret recesses of her heart, drew the pained recognition of the steady sounding of boots colliding against the deck's decaying beams. A gentle motion was enforced and the sea of bodies parted, allowing a solemn figure pass by in their stifled wake. No one spoke as it moved past them, ever-silent in its meaningful pursuit. Even Smee took a cautious step back as it approached the main deck and inclined his white head in deference.

Everyone saw this blatant show of submission, as everyone partook in it, everyone, except Wendy. The captive bride turned her head, as she wholeheartedly refused to acknowledge the one who now stood before her. Even Grey and Smee had left her to the dire mercy of this daunting figure, that so dared to disturb her momentary happiness. She looked to the comforting visage of Smee, who now bore a look of subdued sympathy. His compassionate look did nothing to quell her inner turmoil; however, hearing only staggered breathing, now rugged by her pursuer's ascent from the lower deck.

She barely suppressed a pained gasp when she felt something smooth and uneven, much like the calloused touch of leather, move deftly against her cheek. But despite this initial contact between them, she did not turn to face her silent addresser. Instead she remained ignorant of the man—for she very well knew whom it was touching her—whose awe-inspiring touch remained at a gentle caress.

Her resolve remained a solid, impenetrable fortress of iron-will until she noticed the strange feel of his hand fall away—his singular hand, which appeared to be ungloved—as his arms possessively encircled her, imprisoning her within their firm grasp. At his touch, her remaining strength waned and her heart beat madly within the strained confines of her chest. She felt him hold her, murmur unintelligible whispers in her ear; the voice whom she had depended upon, trusted in giving her the confidence she needed, had thus confirmed her darkest fear: her beloved comforter _was_ indeed this man, this man whom she loathed and despised with her entire being, this man whom she hated and feared most of all.

_Look at me,_ she heard him whisper in her mind. _Look_ _at me, Wendy Darling, and see the man you knew only to be a voice._

For it was after he spoke these beautifully condemning words that her world shattered, as it was then that she dared to look upon the visage of the man who haunted her dreams and dwelled within her nightmares. And thus, Wendy cried out, seeing the dreaded pirate captain at last. She wanted to scream, turn away from the horrific image of the man who stood before her, the unnatural affection found within his eyes forcing her to remember…

She inwardly shuddered, recalling her nightmare's darkest figure and the sight of its listless gaze. As its eyes, those eyes that no human could ever be cursed with, had looked upon her with an expression akin to longing, long repressed by the grand passage of time. And as that invariable emotion was equally conveyed in this man's striking image, those same, damning eyes whose golden hue contrasted the turbulent blue she achingly remembered in her youth penetrated her disjointed thoughts. She wanted to turn away, forget the man who now tormented her with his inhuman stare. But alas, she could not, as her sight remained fixed upon his face—which remarkably remained unchanged by her sudden revulsion of his presence—and thus seeing the rest of the iniquity that became him: his eager grin foretelling an innate desire to have her in his power at last. And his noisome touch; expectant of what was surely to come of her imprisonment: her ultimate surrender to him.

But regardless of her momentary dread, she felt him breathe against her; his touch, despite his loathsome appearance, oddly gentle as he found the words to say.

"You are here, now," he whispered against her cheek, a dark truth filled with cruel sincerity. "I have waited long—almost too long to see you." He straightened, holding her at arm's length, the strange shade of his eyes gleaming in unprecedented delight. "And now you stand before me; not as a vision or dream conjured by false hope, but as flesh and blood." He vaguely smiled under the shadowy veneer of his vagrant expression as he uttered one final, condemning sentence that inevitably purged Wendy's faltering existence into utter chaos:

"Welcome back to the Neverland, my beauty."

…

**Author's Note: And thus concludes the third chapter. I dare hope that Hook does not come off to be too out-of-character with his marked appearance and dialogue. I found it too tempting not to have what he said; so captivatingly possessive, so utterly creepy. Poor Wendy. The dear girl hasn't the slightest in what she has gotten herself into. Oh, and before anyone raises a brow as to the condition of Smee's questionable sanity, the answer is yes: the poor man is utterly, completely, and wholeheartedly out of his mind. But as to why, however, will be explained in later chapters. Rest assured, though, that I rarely, if ever, leave any loose ends, or have no legitimate reason as to what I place in my work. I honestly despise it when writers leave readers to wonder about something when a story is finished in its entirety. I find that I cannot do that, as I understand how nerve-wracking that can be.**

**Also, I realise that there may perhaps be some questioning as to why I had a whole new crew made out for Hook. Well, I must complain of Barrie himself, for it was _his_ fault that the original crew is no longer in Hook's employ, seeing as Peter and co. offed them all in the book—with the exception of Smee and Gentleman Starkey, of course. I was, to be honest, rather reluctant to do this, but seeing as I am a stickler for being faithful to a book's ending, I had to leave it as such. Also, I hope that everyone likes this new crew, as more will be known about them, especially the ones that I have mentioned!**

**On a further note, I apologise for any errors, mistakes, listless paragraphs, and horrid French translations—which I shall add the English counterparts to in this note. Truly, this chapter is not one of my favourites. It was more or less a transition between Wendy's old life in London** **and her new life in the Neverland—namely, on the _Jolly Roger_. **

**Which now leads me to Hook…I can promise that from the next chapter on that our dear captain _will_ be a prominent figure in this story. I can only lament on how it is has taken so long to have him introduced as more than just a voice. Yet he was seemingly so evocative in an amorphous state, as well.**

**Now for French/English translations:**

**_Ma fleur_: My Flower.**

**_Un_** **_plaisir merveilleux:_** **A wonderful delight/pleasure!**

**_Ma belle:_** **My beauty/My beautiful one. (Mentioned by Hook in previous chapters.)**

**Again, I hope that everyone is enjoying this. It is honestly a pleasure to write! As I must kindly thank everyone for reading and taking time to review. I truly enjoy reading the massive variety of thoughts, comments, and _very_ interesting asides! Thank you, everyone, as I can only attempt to make this story one that will remain a pleasure to read. Thank you, again!**


	5. Chapter Four: Does the World Fall

Disclaimer: I do not own _Peter Pan_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners.

Promise of the Last Kiss

Chapter Four

"_Welcome back to the Neverland, my beauty."_

The words barely registered in her mind before their meaning—notwithstanding their fullest significance to this ever-turning mystery—collided against her, forcing her to understand that her wistful dreams of adventure and hopes of never growing up had been ultimately shattered, rendered into a distorted nightmare whose darkness eclipsed the remaining light of her lasting hope, as it was inevitably quenched by the ebony folds of her darkest despair. The remnants of her broken dreams cried out in defiance as all else faded until only the deafness of her cries remained, echoing a soundless plight into the harrowing strands of oblivion. She felt pain then, the agonising strains of her heartbeat quavering in fear of which that now held her captive.

And so Wendy stood, in the arms of her captor.

Once again, she felt him place his hand against her face, the arcane touch of his fingers gracing against the smoothness of her cheek. His hand lingered there, fixed upon the delicate skin that now beheld his undivided attention. The idle chain of whispers from a suspicious crew, followed by the unnatural coolness of his breath—as Wendy found herself strangely unsettled by—fell against her neck, gently teasing the delicate skin as all watched, both bemused and awed by this sordid display.

Even still, however, Wendy disregarded the sound disbelief of those who observed them, numb to everything, save the captain's provoking touch. She shuddered in his wake, feeling the warmth that emitted from the rich burgundy folds of his coat—which was painfully indistinguishable to the one he wore on that fateful eve so long ago—cloak her in its secure confines.

But notwithstanding this subtle act of possession, did her hands move of their own accord as she tried to break away from his impenetrable hold. Yet to her dismay, he held firm, his arms unyielding as they tightened around her, dominating her.

Wendy relented then, finding it useless to fight against him. Outnumbered and completely abandoned, she was no match against the likes of the notorious pirate who had once been Blackbeard's bo'sun, as he was also the only man whom Barbeque feared. Even the great naval fleets of the motherland and its opposing cousin never dared cross such an indignant and relentless adversary, their fear of his brutal tactics much too great to elicit an open battle at sea.

With these noble truths, she knew that should she attempt an escape, it would be folly, since her weakness lay, not only in her ignorance of a sword, but also physically. She could not even take flight to the darkening skies above, for she no longer had any happy thoughts; the years of pain and growing up, combined with her present captivity, stripped her of her remaining happiness. For even if she could attempt such a daring feat, she knew that he would follow her, pursue her until he came upon her; his revenge exacted by the crimson droplets of her own blood staining the infamous hook.

She could not run from him, either; her shattered leg unable to carry her from beyond that of the mainmast. It would be of little use to even try. Even more, she realised that her hopeful attempts in eluding him would be all for nought; she would remain this man's prisoner until such a time, by either her noted death or hailed liberation—which would not come without a grave price—answered the endless questions her mind now posed. For even more, she had one thought above all: _why_ was she here?

That elusive question echoed the true curiosity of her presence here. If the captain desired revenge, why not exact it by punishing all of those who stood by and watched as he lost to his childlike nemesis? Why abduct only one, when so many others were just as guilty? Wendy shook her head, unable to answer any of these endlessly evasive questions. The inability to find any sense or reason within them beset her with worry. And yet, she refrained from pursuing these half-construed conjectures further, only feeling the ever-softening touch of a man who now tormented her.

But just as she acknowledged the pained recognition of his gentle ministrations, she reluctantly fell against him, and thus succumbed—if only for a careless moment—to his atypical desire. His arms moved around her, more firmly now, twisting and coiling like a serpent to its prey. The strength emitted from this dark enemy not only unnerved her, but inspired her. She could not fathom his purpose in all of this: why beseech her in such a gratuitous manner? Why touch her in this degrading manner, that even the greatest of lovers dare question? If he truly wished for revenge, he could have abducted her long ago. Yet instead he waited, ever so patiently for the right time, as was with all of the greatest plots and schemes contrived by the hand of scheming strategists throughout history. Yet _his_ determination had only doubled by his wait.

"Beauty, I have indeed waited long for you," she heard him whisper against her cheek—as if reading her very thoughts—and inwardly flinched at the coarse feel of his partially grown beard. His hand then obliged her to face him. _But waiting for you was well worth my time; you are here now,_ he said in her mind this time, so as the others aboard could not hear the profundity behind his implication and the passionate undertones in his words. He looked at her, meaningfully, and his eyes imparted an emotion akin to gratified desire—a desire that she herself could not deny as being nothing but pure, unadulterated lust.

She instinctively recoiled, having seen this look before: on the faces of those who yearned for something of which they could never have—at least not until their wedding-night. For it was that she had seen many a lady fall for a man unworthy of them, as they were consequently ruined, their reputations shattered in the eyes of polite society. Secretly, she had berated those who prided themselves on such frivolities. The mindless passion and allure that only lasted temporarily, was enough to cause a lifetime of unhappiness, whether by an unwanted child or to be completely isolated from the only world they knew. It was a disheartening truth, but a reality all the same.

And though she had been privileged to have acquired a fiancé before any dared use such wicked charms upon her, she was also knowledgeable in the shared intimacy between a husband and wife upon their wedding-night, as her mother—unlike most in her matronly position—divulged certain, sacred truths long before her daughter's engagement, finding it better to be honest and upfront with the truth than to have her child suffer for it later.

In this, Wendy was fortunate, and eternally grateful for her mother's thoughtful admission. And yet, her fortune as of late seemed to have abandoned her as the man who now held her reflected that same, alluring sentiment her mother often warned of. His eyes…those horribly, unsettling eyes visited that primal emotion upon her, reflecting only a fragment of the reason for her captivity. She was unable to consider the other reasons of his abducting her, for his eyes told much, almost too much.

But as she gravely noted this strange mixture of longing and desire, it vanished, leaving her to question whether such primitive emotions were even there. For such aberrant feelings could be unfathomable at times, like a mystery she had yet to solve. As it was with Captain James Hook, the dark figure that once haunted her stories and gave life to a multitude of dreams—that same, enigmatic figure that filled her with tales of adventure and daring beyond all imagination, stood broodingly before her. For this man, her captor, was as much a part of her stories as he was of the Neverland. And just as he held her, she felt the truth of it resonate behind this unspoken belief. For just as he touched her, she knew that her part in this nightmarish tale was far from over.

_You fear too much, Wendy Darling, _his soundless voice echoed, teasingly, and gently forced her out of her thoughts. Wendy paled as she once again heard the playful banter, mixed with a hint of mirth. Did he honestly find it a game to torment her so? His charade as her comforter had been enough to destroy what little faith she had in confiding in another. Indeed, her hatred of his person increased with each mocking blow he dispensed.

A touch a loathing marred her face as she writhed against his imprisoning embrace. And once again, she found herself yearning to pull away, yet conceding in her vain effort. Relenting, she inclined her head in admitted defeat, pitifully whispering her only plea, "Please, let go of me." For just as she uttered these meaningful, albeit muted words, she felt the firmness of his arms give way until they released her from his confining hold completely. Her eyes widened, surprised by his show of courtesy, his civility in obeying her hushed command shocking her to her very core.

Before she could say anything, however, Hook addressed his crew. "Gentlemen, as you all know, Miss Darling will be staying with us for the duration of this voyage. I expect all of you to show her only the utmost decency and respect, as you would me." His gaze hardened a fraction. "If anyone opposes this, then let him give his grievances over to me in the privacy of my cabin." His hook raised in a genial manner. "That is all," he said, dismissing them, and then returned his gaze to Wendy.

"I trust that Smee has already made introductions between you and my crew." Seeing her briefly smile, he took her hand in his. "You have no reason to fear them," he added, whispering away any fear she may have had of the ghoulish seamen. "You will be under my protection as long as you remain here," he said firmly, ignoring her gaping expression. "And just as you shall want for nothing, I will have you stay here, on the ship." _With me_, he whispered effortlessly in her mind.

Wendy could only nod, feeling his eyes rove over her once more, their fathomless depths an impenetrable fortress of cold assiduity. She instinctively shuddered, trembling at his hollow assessment of her. For never before had she felt a man examine her so. As never before had she felt so intimidated, so insignificantly small in the presence of one she believed to be dead. Her brows furrowed in thought, as it was then that she recalled his terrible fate, and his last words spoken so long ago:

_Peter had been at the mercy of his sworn enemy, his eyes dulled, his body pale and lifeless. The Lost Boys, along with the Darling brothers, and the rest of Hook's crew had looked on as man and boy met at a terrible stalemate, a counterpoint to their previous battles now concluded in this bloody mêlée where only one would be the final victor. Hook had been so confident in his skilled endeavour; and Peter, so helpless, for never before had he been at this madman's mercy, as the one-handed cutthroat would ultimately triumph. But therein lay the pirate's greatest error. For just as confident and debonair in his ability to fight, had he discounted one small thing: the greatest weapon of all: love._

_The captain had not seen the error in his words when he told the eternal child a fabricated truth, that the boy could never be loved. But all children loved Peter Pan. And so had Wendy, if only for a short, fanciful moment. He was what every child dreamed of being, as their fear of growing up became more prominent in the passing years of age. No child could remain in such a blissful, blinding state of innocence forever, for all children, except one, grow up._

_As such, the shameful Hook had only just recognised this said truth, for just as he inwardly gloated in his moment of triumph dare he witness his greatest defeat—by the hands of a simple girl-child, no less! It was indeed that her final farewell to the condemned had been in the form of a kiss, such a trifling gift in the embodiment of something so small as a thimble, had barely passed Hook's notice as he approved of the forlorn exchange, wholly unaware of its true significance. _

_So it was that the eternal child had found love that fateful evening, his joy radiating a strange, yet jubilant, pinkish hue. He had ignited into the air then, as no cruel, grown-up words could harm his innate joy: he was Peter Pan, and he was loved._

_Hook had been wrong, grievously so, for just as Peter could easily find love and acceptance, the pirate captain could not. No one would _ever _come to love someone as ancient and lonely as time itself, given that no one could bear such an arduous task in loving a man so greatly maladjusted and cruel as he. _

_As a result, the captain acknowledged this inherent truth, and had thus confirmed his rôle in this unending tragedy: he had lost, and Peter Pan had won, as always. And with this, he accepted his fate. _

"_Bad form," he cried jeeringly, and went content to the crocodile…_

For thus perished James Hook, ill-fated captain of the now-ghost ship, the _Jolly Roger_. Even so, the man who now stood before her was not some ghostly apparition contrived by a storyteller's whimsical mind. Nor was he a spectre who had risen from his watery grave. Indeed, the man looked anything but. And it was this dreaded certainty that compelled Wendy to utter: "This cannot be."

Hook heard her stifled disbelief, saw the unwilling uncertainty within her dark eyes. She had dared to disbelieve him, find fault in his words. "But it is," he firmly, if not gently, countered. "You _are_, after all, in the Neverland, my dear." His stable assertion dared her to further oppose him. _And so it is here that you shall stay_, _with the man you knew solely to be a voice,_ he silently promised.

"But you died," Wendy contradicted him, not hearing the crew's strident gasp, which was followed by a gathering of doubtful murmurings uttered from the deck below. She shook her head, her deep-rooted convictions in logic heavily outweighing the absurd delusion that lay so falsely before her. "I watched, as you and Peter ascended into the air. You fought each other, swords clashing at full force." Her sallow gaze reflected her words, those final moments played out within their obsidian depths. "You battled over the ship, fighting to gain the upper-hand. But Peter stopped you, forcing you into submission," she said at last, and her voice lowered significantly. "You looked at us, overcome by your loss. And then you fell…into the jaws of that crocodile."

Wendy thoughtfully paused, fearful, until she found the confidence needed to finish her account. She looked at him, almost regrettably, as she quietly murmured, "You died that evening, by the hand of Peter Pan." Her unwilling eyes moved over him, questioning if he was truly there or was simply a crude figment of her darkest imagination. But even as she hazarded this single doubt, her head sorrowfully inclined as she admitted one, final confession to all:

"Captain Hook is dead."

The idle murmurings and vivacious whispers that circulated amongst the crew drew to a dead standstill the moment she echoed those condemning words aloud. No one spoke, as they stood there, gaping at her, eyes piercing in deep question as to the validity of her outspoken disbelief. Some had even dared to shake their heads in uncertainty, utterly disappointed by such profane claims imparted. But ever still, they remained silent, staring.

In the brief passage of a second, a hundred and thirty-three questioning eyes watched her, thoroughly engaged. The ghostlike faction remained steadfast in its deep-rooted convictions, however, subdued by this girl-child who spoke madly of something she did not understand, as only an insolent few could all but fathom what sorrow stirred their captain to save this young woman from a world that had already tainted her enduring beauty.

And as their unbroken vow of silence persisted, the lady in question felt her growing unease augment and fester—to see their gaunt faces convey nothing but muted shock, troubled her. But even more, was their disquieting silence, as it could never compare to the trepidation that now wracked her already troubled mind. The onslaught of dread, combined with the agonising worry and overall fear of what she had just openly admitted, discouraged her, as her truest concern lay in the firm, possessive touch of the one who now held her hand.

She swallowed; fearfully aware that she would now die by her captor's hand—or rather, iron claw—before these awe-stricken men. And though she quelled the uprise of an internal fear, she could not deny her dread of the deadly instrument that had unsurprisingly replaced his right hand. She said nothing in her defence, though moved as she was by the slight comfort of the non-threatening feel of it at her side. It had remained there during her forthright conviction of his demise, as it still lingered possessively over her. With this, she was almost encouraged to speak, but was silenced by his own, arresting voice.

"What nonsense is this that clouds your mind, my dear Miss Darling?" the captain gently chided her, conjuring a nervous laugh from the crew, who still watched with bated breath from the main deck. "Indeed, your betrothed must have given you quite a turn for you to believe such obvious falsehoods." His jest came out amusedly, though his eyes articulated a sentiment completely different. Wendy almost drew away from him, but was halted in her progress by the rigidity of his grasp, that now tightened ever so aggressively around her hand. She instantly relented and listened as he continued, this time addressing both she _and_ his crew.

"And here you are: believing me to be one of the most dreaded villains found in some, petulant child's bedtime story." His demeanour changed, his words becoming gravely serious and so inexplicably profound that Wendy barely noticed when he whispered against her paling cheek, "But you are right, my dear: Captain Hook _is_ dead." He glared at her, darkly so. "And I am not he." _Not anymore_, he silently amended.

"Miss Wendy, both ye an' the master are right: that dreadful man is dead," Smee cut in, and earned an acknowledging glance from his master. He carefully wiped his spectacles with an anxious hand and timorously placed the scratched lenses back on their rightful nasal perch before glancing at the charming and diminutive lady in front of him. "Besides which, ye needn't worry about _him_ anymore. Our good master is now captain of this fine vessel," he proudly added, beaming. "So rest easy, miss; ye are in safe hands aboard the master's ship."

Hook nodded in agreement. "And as such, I believe that Miss Darling must retire from our company for the rest of the evening, as she is still quite weary from her journey," he acknowledged to everyone, including Wendy. He then looked at her, a sinister grin partially concealed by his chivalrous demeanour. "Smee shall return you to your quarters until dinner, whereupon then I shall join you," he affirmed quietly, his bewitching eyes issuing a fair, subtle warning within their icy depths: _We shall speak of the rest later._

And so it was that Wendy, the captive bride, gave in to the captain's insidious pleasure, remaining unnervingly silent as a nervous and blundering Smee returned her to the deck below. She passed by the numerous sea of faces—sixty-seven shared expressions that conveyed both wonder and terror as she silently walked amongst them—unresponsive to their unified visage of concern as her thoughts remained solely upon the one who had issued her now imprisoned status. Her steps quickened and her gait faltered in their wake. For though she walked with the dignity and confidence of a queen, she felt only the initial dread of the approaching twilight hours, where _he_ would make good on his promise and come to her. There would be no chance of escape then; her meagre hope of it had dissipated like the Neverland's fading sun, which now set broodingly before her.

But as the last of her hope diminished with its crimson-red beams, she allowed herself to look once more at the deck from which she had descended. And there, as her dark eyes moved past the dead, fearful faces of the crew, her sight fell upon the famed captain of the _Jolly Roger._ She looked at him, if only for a moment, and saw, to her regret, that his eyes had never left her. She turned away, shamefully, still seeing his face; and that demanding stare, that reflected both hatred and anger within its turbulent look. She felt captivated by it, entranced. But then caution quelled her feminine curiosity of such things, obliging her to forget his incessant staring and the eyes that seemed to faintly glow in the coming darkness. And just as she entered her dark chambers below, she felt him once again speak within the defined contours of her ever-questioning mind: _Guard your reservations well, _ma belle; _I shall come soon. _

…

The evening quietly passed into the heady, darkened throes of twilight, though uneventful in its transient shift into night. The waves that rocked the ship with their gentle, oceanic lull fell away to silence as the dull orange glow of candlelight engulfed the room with pale flame. A multitude of shadows were cast madly about the cabin walls, dancing like those of the mythical fae, their movements dignified, graceful against the flickering strands of light. Their ethereal waltz melded into a mad _mazurka_, mimicking that of opulent courts far to the east. They danced in joy; they danced with radiance, as they danced solely for the one who now marvelled at them from afar. It was the occupant's only comfort in this room of sorrow, enclosed by the prison it truly was.

Wendy watched the shadow-dance, her eyes darkening amidst the dusky foray of candlelight. Smee had left her long ago, to wait and suffer alone in the darkness as the man whom had promised her an evening's company would soon arrive. _But how soon?_ she asked herself, for a great portion of time had already passed without her knowledge. But if it was minutes, hours, or simply seconds she did not know, only that the waxing of candlelight had been her only measure of time. And much of the candles' wax had already beaded down their once smooth, pristine columns.

She quietly frowned, yet indulged her silent dancers with a myriad of thoughts of the ever-elusive James Hook. If only he had forgotten her like Peter. If only his desire for revenge had deterred him from abusing her with his undesirable company. If only he could be more than a heartless villain whose missing hand and sinister demeanour was nothing but a fantasy contrived by her own mind.

If only…

She shook her head, abandoning such vain hopes. Hook—or whoever he now fancied himself to be—would come. It was the one certainty she had no question of, as she secretly knew that, despite his subjected tyranny amongst his crew and criminal acts at sea, he would never defile his honour—albeit questionable at times—by breaking something so small and insignificant as a promise. Indeed, the man's good form would not allow him to.

And it was with this admitted truth that the door to her prison opened; as within its darkened entry, stood the man she reserved for her darkest of bedtime stories.

Eyes the flagrant colour of the forget-me-not loomed over her, riveted by the vision they saw. The strange luminous flecks among the pale blue irises seemed to glow an eerie shade of gold, like two stars born of the brightest hellfire. Certainly, they were a beautiful contrast to the royal-blue coat he now wore; his flawless visage and noble strands of coiled hair enhanced by a feather-plumed hat, which complimented his nightly attire. He looked at her, almost vacantly, as the whisper of a malicious smile and gold twinkle from a bejewelled earring—that seemed to have a strange, curve-like tooth hanging from its polished rim—completed him, a final portrait of personified villainy. And yet, to the villain himself, he was all but…

Hook stared at her, his mouth slightly agape. "You look beautiful," he said in earnest, but only came out as a strained murmur.

Wendy blushed, partially amused by his lack of decorum. But then she looked at her dress and shamefully noticed her garish wedding gown, now wrinkled and worn by her carelessness up on deck. Her fatigued manner and dirtied garment were a poor contrast to his forebodingly handsome appearance. But despite the gauche ambience between them, she could see that, within his eyes, he said what mere words could not. In his eyes, he was pleased, if not delighted to see her. She could scarcely compose herself before he removed himself from the cabin's threshold and closed the door behind him.

"I realise that the hour is late, and that you have waited all of this time for me." He removed his hat, glancing at the unset table. "You must be famished, my dear. I ask that you forgive me and overlook my thoughtlessness in keeping you." He gracefully took her hand in his and led her to the table. "Dinner shall be served momentarily. Until then, I would have your company, where you would indulge me in your life in London. How are you fairing in your studies?" he began artlessly, allowing Wendy a chance to speak without so much as an awkward word.

"Very well," she answered quietly, though certain that he already knew of her studying at home.

The captain inwardly grinned at her displeasure. "Ah, why so silent this evening, Miss Darling?"

A thin, dark brow rose at his question, personifying the confusion and secret trepidation Wendy harboured; and whereupon this lovely, disturbing sight did her captor smirk, dropping all pretences. "Of course you were never one to speak so openly about anything, were you, my _darling_?" he enquired, teasingly, and then laughed at her chagrined expression in his use of her family name. "I mean no harm in the usage of your name, truly. I believe that it rather suits one such as you."

_As your hook suits your name?_ she silently questioned, not daring to speak those scornful words aloud. But just as she tried to speak of something more decorous, much safer, he spoke:

"Indeed, I find that you are right in that aspect, Miss Darling. This"—He raised his hook, now tarnished by the elements—"does give my name a high note of esteem, does it not?" he returned coldly, and his captive knew that he had read her thoughts.

"I…" Wendy looked down, ashamed. But why she felt so, she knew not. Her words, though remaining unspoken, were still enough to wound him with their cruelty. For even after his attempt in being civil, did she dare to be so cruel. "Forgive me, that was uncalled for," she admitted with the last vestige of her dignity.

He considered her apology in silence, the rigid turbulence of his glare not ebbing in the wake of her confession. "It is of little consequence, seeing as all shall regard me as such," he said bitterly, and waved her remorse aside with a careless hand. "Why should I believe you to be any different, Miss Darling? What with your face and charm to blind me by believing in your false sincerity?" he scoffed. "Do not think me to be so simple as those pathetic little Lost Boys who clung to you like a mother."

Wendy flinched at his words, but regained a fragment of her present ire. "How dare you?" she questioned, now unafraid. "You know _nothing_ about them!" Her eyes moved into dark ebony slits of rage, her words becoming defensive, protective of those who still needed her. "They are the most wonderful—most loyal of brothers one could ever ask for. I am fortunate that Mother and Father decided to take them in and claim them as their own." She shook her head, her voice becoming sombre, almost poignant at the mere mention of them. "And very soon they will leave me, to begin adventures of their own, as adults."

A moment, filled with the gravity of their conjoining anger, passed between them. Hook said nothing in response to her claim, noting that a single tear fell in the name of her brothers. It was an unspoken truth, a testament to the apparent love she must have felt for those whom Pan had taken in, and then so hastily discarded. He could well recall many an occasion where she would fondly speak of the ones who had once tormented his crew with their child's antics. And as he now regarded her, the boys' once-mother, he presently dismissed his current rage, knowing that it would not do to upset the girl, not when he had to be gentle with her, trusting. With this slight admission, the captain reluctantly sighed.

"And I am sure that they will grow up to become fine young men," he placated softly, and earned a look of surprise from his captive. He shook his head, now free from the confining mass of velvet and feathers. "Who better to teach them to become as such than that of their beloved storyteller?" He grinned mockingly. "As I recall, you once told them some nonsense about a lady losing a glass slipper? 'Tis a far cry from pirates and having adventures with buried treasure, _non_?" he teased with a hint of French, and once again earned a surprised look from her.

_Indeed it was_, Wendy silently agreed. But to admit that was to acknowledge him kindly, and she could never bring herself to succumb so easily, no matter how charming and gracefully articulated his words became. She looked at him then, the faint trace of irritation far removed from his gaze. She faintly blushed under his scrutiny, feeling his eyes penetrate her remaining confidence. In truth, she all but enjoyed this now gentle exchange, though disheartening it now became. For with it, came memories of home, of Mother and Father, of John…

"I have not told stories for quite some time, captain. I have almost forgotten how," she demurred, yet said nothing further on the subject.

Hook nodded, albeit reluctantly. "But you still remember how to brandish a sword, do you not?" he quipped. "Or has that knowledge left you, as well, _Red-handed Jill_?"

_Red-handed Jill?_ Wendy shook her head, feigning to be scandalised in the presence of a pirate. "_Ladies_ do not brandish swords in polite company, lest they be ordered to vacate a much respected garden party," she returned, almost enjoying his mocking grin, yet scolding herself in the same instant.

"_Touché_, my dear," he returned, wholly amused by her gentle banter. His brows drew together then, an inky smudge on his otherwise noble brow. "But garden parties, Miss Darling? Surely you have braved far worse than those barbaric, godless heathens you deem as company." He shook his head. "I cannot imagine you sipping tea and chatting with that fool who sits on a throne and calls himself a king while there are adventures to be had." Noting her confusion, he enlightened her. "I daresay that you would have made a fine pirate—probably one of the best," he said thoughtfully, and his voice darkened. "But it was not to be, was it? I suppose that Lady Fate had other designs in mind for you." _As she did for me_…

Wendy reluctantly nodded, not hearing his silent altercation, as his eyes betrayed no emotion to his inner disquiet. She remained completely unaware, her scant attention resting solely upon her hand, which was inadvertently held captive by his. The strange, coarse feeling of leather stroked her skin with the deftness and certainty of a much skilled seducer. It was as if they had done this before. But where, she could not recall.

These dubious thoughts pervaded her mind for little more than a moment, their idle questions forming indelicate suspicions as to the true intentions of this man. Who _was_ James Hook, exactly? Was he not the famed villain who had sailed the Seven Seas and was a scourge upon the English royal navy? His crimes were legend; second only to Blackbeard, yet was far outgraced by the notable gallantry of the Black Prince. _Oh, no,_ Wendy thought derisively, _he could _never _compare to the dark royal whose extraordinary character both outmatched and outwitted his contemporaries on the high seas._

James Hook could never match such a man, even if he displayed an ounce of courtesy after everything that had passed between them. The wounds of his treachery ran far too deep, too painful as she remembered his deceit and her near-execution by walking the plank. She could never forget such agonising terror, her impending fear in the wake of being eaten by the ever-ticking crocodile, just as she could never forgive the man who inspired it.

And yet, as she reluctantly found comfort in the enfolding caress of his hand, its relief became nothing more than regretful sorrow as she tried to turn away from him, her hand still captured by his. She shook her head, as a mass of dark ringlets, now unbound by her dishevelled state, fell lifelessly against her wan cheeks. She looked pitiful, bereft of any joy she may have had; her wedding gown and the ring that her left-ring finger still bore were the only pieces of a shattered longing that could never be sated. After all, at a time—which had only been but a day ago—her mind had warred with her child's heart over the hope that Peter would somehow come for her, mature and aged, and rescue her from her dismal, Londoner's existence and, after all was said and done, marry her as it was meant to be.

The very thought of her life ending with another, even with Henry—whom she still believed would be her husband—could never be like the life she so desperately wanted, with the magical child who had enthralled her so in the retiring secludes of the island. No one could ever replace what she felt for Peter, even if she wished it otherwise; as no one, not even Captain James Hook, could ever hope to separate a love so pure and untainted by a world beyond the Neverland's borders.

With this, Wendy dared to brave a look at her captor, hoping to find a trace of remorse in him by setting her free. Her hand shifted, her fingers moving eloquently over his. She looked at him, silent in her intent. That darkening allure had never left him, she quietly admitted, even as he had once fallen to the mercy of the crocodile. How he had managed to survive was yet another mystery that lay unsolved. Even more perplexing, why _did_ he want her so? she questioned. What did he look at her with such intensity; harbour such meaning behind his words? Why did he reluctantly welcome her touch now?

But just as her mind considered such convening matters, she felt his hand linger over hers, mimicking her delicate movements. His eyes became liquid gold in the candlelight, enhancing his already intriguing visage. A slight shudder fell away, but from which the other knew not, as both stared, transfixed by this intimate exchange. _Wendy_, his compelling voice echoed before moving closer, his face descending—barely a breadth above hers. A staggered breath caught in her throat as an innate knowledge of what was surely to come compelled her to withdraw from his promising intent.

"Captain, I—"

A resounding knock at the door halted her words, and once again she was left astounded by the gentle calm that had so abruptly replaced the captain's questionable behaviour. He did not even consider her as he conveniently and quite naturally removed her hand from his, moving to stand at a respectable distance. He righted himself, his silver hook, though tarnished, gleaming against the flickering candlelight.

"You may come in, _Monsieur le_ Marquis," he quietly acknowledged with placid certainty.

After a moment of stilted silence, the door finally opened to reveal the nervous French nobleman, whom had entertained Wendy with his charms only a few hours before. He appeared anxious, his once-perfect attire now in terrible disarray. "Many pardons_, mon capitaine_, I was…detained in the galley," he muttered fretfully in his native language, and then placed a silver platter before Wendy.

The captain nodded, as if such a thing were common for the Frenchman.

The noble _émigré_ quickly resumed his task, placing two crystal glasses on the table; one, a small, gold-rimmed crystal chalice, and the other, larger, almost crude in its form and design, a crimson-red goblet. An unopened bottle of wine was then handed to the captain, who waited patiently for the man to serve his mistress. The Frenchman cast her a timid smile, murmuring, "I hope you enjoy your meal, _mademoiselle._ It is indeed one of my greatest triumphs."

Wendy coloured under his appreciative stare, unaware of the mild irritation that began to cloud the captain's already stormy eyes. "If you are quite finished, _marquis;_ I will not require your services for the rest of the evening," Hook coldly dismissed, his tone and polite diction a silent warning.

"Of course, _capitaine,_" the marquis replied nervously, bowing to his superior—which was an act unheard of for a peer of the realm to ever commit—and smiled once more at Wendy before taking his leave.

Once again, the captain and his captive were left to the bitter silence that engulfed the cabin with its harsh stillness. The gauche discomfort of being in the presence of the notorious pirate distressed Wendy, finding that her _company_ for the evening remained seated before her, without food, only drink, to appease him. The wine he had poured during the Frenchman's awkward duty in serving her left her ultimately surprised in a manner that she had not noticed his subtlety in being courteous. His polite nature in remaining silent during the course of the meal also left her to question as to the validity of his purposeful civility. Was he trying to impress her? she silently wondered. Or did he indeed have in mind another reason for his gentlemanly approach? She could only ascertain his reasoning in giving her a cause to doubt him.

"Captain," Wendy murmured, trying to break the silence between them. When he finally urged her with a silent gesture in his gaze—that had not left her since the marquis quit them—to continue, she faltered. "I…was wondering…" She shook her head in agitation. "What I mean to say, is that I noticed you…"

"I have already dined this evening," he said evenly, his eyes still remaining upon her immaculate face, which was now marked with uncertainty. "You need not concern yourself over me, Miss Darling. I am sure that you would prefer to dine alone, instead of having the company of a pirate whose sole intention is to confound you with his _civility_ and good conduct." He took the goblet of red liquid gracefully between his thumb and index finger and drained its contents, his watchful gaze never leaving her. "I discomfort you," he muttered with a note of certainty. "And I know that you would have me leave you now, but I fear I must decline your wish; I shall stay with you a moment more."

Hearing his demoralising words, Wendy's face contorted into a mask of pained confusion. A legion of tears resided within the rim of her eyes, but she stilled them, holding them against their will. Her hands shook in controlled anger, her genteel façade falling. She looked at him, uncertainty penetrating her eyes. Her silence held under his everlasting stare until she could bear it no longer. Forgetting herself, she rose from the table, placing distance between she and her captor. She glared at him, her eyes fixed on him as she spoke:

"What is it that you want from me, captain? Is it Peter, or making me your captive to entrap him when he tries to rescue me?" she cried, and shook her head sorrowfully. "He will not fall prey to your will again. Or have you forgotten the last time he bested you," she taunted. "Oh, yes, I seem to recall how you lost to him, not realising your error in my giving him a…" She could not finish, for his calming visage seemed to change to unrepentant anger with each verbal strike.

"At a loss for words, Miss Darling?" he crudely posed, his cutting rejoinder like ice. Mimicking her action, he removed himself from the table. His footfalls echoed sharply in the wooden confines of the dimly-lit cabin as he moved to her side, ignoring her stifled gasp as he closed the distance between them. For a moment, he took in her tarnished beauty and wary figure. She had indeed changed since last he saw her. But it was such a change he found enticing, as nothing as small and insignificant as a _thimble_ could undo the damage already done…

"You are indeed right about one thing, my beauty," he roughly conceded, his one hand pulling her against him. Wendy sharply struggled, but found it utterly useless to fight him. Feeling her submit, he tilted her chin heavenward with his hook, his diligent gaze appraising her in the dark gloom of the cabin. "A thimble is nought but a trivial thing, I imagine—so trivial that the one you gave it to, has already forgotten it. I am afraid he has lost it, somewhere in between one of his countless adventures. As it is most assuredly tarnished by now, just as the one who so willingly gave it has grown up and realised that her gift meant nothing."

His words, though meaningful, struck hard as a gentle, yet tremulous, voice raised to speak against his solemn affirmation. "Please, say no more of this," his captive cried, a traitorous tear falling at last.

Unmoved by her plea, her captor continued his torture. "No, I refuse to allow you to believe in this lie any longer, Wendy." _And if I have to tear the boy to pieces, you _will _understand_, he raged within her mind. "I will not have you linger on over this ridiculous nonsense. He is not coming for you—not anymore. And once he realises his loss, he will rue the day of ever crossing my path, I assure you," he gravely swore.

Wendy's inclined head rose at his words, and her frown deepened. "But he has forgotten you," she murmured quietly, defensively. "He forgot you by the next spring cleaning." She bit the lower part of her lip, her eyes reflecting a fragment of sorrow for the ongoing tragedy of the boy's forgetfulness. "He even forgot Tinker Bell and the adventures we had. Much later, he even forgot my brothers and his band of Lost Boys." She paused, reluctant to say the rest. Unbeknownst to her, however, Hook already knew.

"As he will undoubtedly forget about you, his Wendy," he callously remarked. "Oh, do you honestly believe me to be so foolish, Miss Darling? I could have my revenge upon that little ingrate any time I desire. It matters not whether he has forgotten me, or only considers me to be some nightmare, long repressed by his careless mind." He smiled devilishly, his tone maliciously sweet. "But the fact of the matter is that I already _know_ where he dwells on that accursed island. Shall I tell you? He has made his home in the rooftops with the faeries since you left. And it is quite easy to reach them, my dear. The boy cannot battle sleep forever; and, at times, he even succumbs to it, having nightmares of some past adversary he has conveniently forgotten, no doubt."

At his admission, Wendy held her silence; not trusting her own voice, lest she anger him further and forfeit her life by falling to the mercy of his hook. And so she remained in a state of disillusionment, feeling only minute liberation from her imprisonment. She refused to look at him, knowing that if she did, she would lose whatever power she had over him. But yet, she could not bear the disquieting sensation he gave by simply looking at her. With a mark of hesitance, she sighed, and at last turned to meet his imposing stare.

His expression revealed nothing as to the true emotions lingering under his dusky appearance. Only his eyes, which remained broodingly upon her, divulged any regard he felt. And that sentiment—whether she wished to believe it or not—was nothing more than grim satisfaction.

_Why are you doing this?_ she wanted to ask, yet could not find the strength within herself to enquire over such an irreverent question. Indeed, she felt the harsh sting of its repercussions grieve her with its unspoken truth, revealing all in the simple notion of revenge. She was certain that he had not forgotten her part in his defeat on that night, so long ago. How could he, when he desired nothing more than to partake in his greatest adversary's demise? And what better way than to use something that his nemesis cared for?

But sadly for Hook, he could only believe that Peter still cared for her, in some small measure at least. Perhaps he had placed too much faith in Peter's erratic memories, for the child was oftentimes forgetful. Even Wendy had to reluctantly admit that the boy had forgotten her brothers on their first visit to that wild, inhabited fantasy that was solely the Neverland. The child's memory of her would surely be just as fleeting, since he had been absent for many spring cleanings.

A disquieted sigh escaped Wendy, and her confidence slowly returned as she dared to look into the dark, fathomless eyes of the captain. Her certainty almost faltered when his gaze countered hers, calmly forcing her into submission. She scarcely noticed the slight traces of a smile reside at the corner of his mouth, arrogant and absurdly masculine in its certitude. The gentle caress of his fingers made her shudder, their slight movements trailing invisible lines of intrigue against her pale flesh. And then his hook descended, placing itself against the ivory column of her throat.

Wendy barely withheld her surprise as the cold edge of the blade moved against her, teasing her skin with its curved end. The sharp edge did not dare mar the delicate flesh underneath, only enticed it with its dangerous exterior. Very soon it fell, moving across the graceful contours of her collarbone, to the faintly concealed crevice above her bodice. Her eyes widened, feeling its sharp point prod at the beaded material.

"Jewel-encrusted satin," Hook commented with a dark note of disdain, as the metal hand jeered at the wanton fabric. He looked at Wendy, a sneer marring his ignoble visage. "That fool who was allegedly besotted with you spared no expense in moulding you into something that sated his taste for you," he grimly criticised, though apathetic in his expression revealed another emotion entirely: understanding. His eyes held hers, captivating her as they urged her to understand. "He dressed you to be his whore, Wendy, not his bride. He wanted you to be part of a lie, and I will be damned if I do not make you see it," he whispered defiantly; his eyes, the colour of amber tainted forget-me-nots, gleamed in audacity. "He will not have you, Wendy Darling. On this, I vow."

His caustic remark made Wendy frown. "But he loves me," she insisted gently. "He said as much, even as he kissed—" Hook's hand covered her mouth before she could utter another word. His eyes blazed in unmarked fury at her declaration, his mind enraged by her blindness. Absently he placed his hook against her chest, where the fragile beat of her heart resided, its cold surface a silent warning.

"You shall not mention that lowborn wretch ever again, Wendy. Do you understand?" he informed her, dangerously, his barely controlled anger not diminishing from his present fury. However, as his inner ire raged against his restraint, he noticed her growing despondency, her outward fear. Without a word, he removed his claw from her, allowing it to staunchly fall to his side. His other hand moved to hers, clasping it in rigid comfort. The vicious gleam of crimson left his sight then, leaving the strange, calming colouring behind. Wendy, oblivious to this taciturn shift, looked into his eyes, and was lost.

For just as she became a captive prisoner to his desire, she felt the last vestige of his dark irritation dissipate into a nebulous cloud of dissolution. He seemed another person entirely—not the foreboding entity that had threatened her only moments before. Even the cold, biting touch of his hook had seemed welcoming, the deadly instrument now dormant in its maddening pursuit to tear through yet another victim. He seemed different, changed by some mordant twist of fate.

As the evidence for this aching suspicion was in his touch: he touched her as a doting suitor would his intended. And she felt moved by the indelicate advance of his fingertips, the leathery soft digits creating a pattern, so intricate in its imaginary form and design, that she could almost feel them cut his poetic meaning into her, a forbidden tattoo of his subtle implication. Her heart beat erratically, and her head turned, as his intention greatly reminded her of the voice whose tender-taken touch could ignite a thousand, unknown sensations each time it spoke. The hand was as much a part of the voice as it was to the man who now held her captive. And against her will, she revelled in this foreign contact elicited by her captor, as she could now place this man's touch with the voice, which seemed almost sinful in a way, almost right. She could barely distinguish the maimed pirate from the cultured comforter who still yet sought to console her.

His breath, a cool zephyr that teased and tormented the skin of her throat, implored her to turn and face him. And so Wendy obeyed, seeing the man whose taciturn nature juxtaposed his villainous character. His bronzed complexion gleamed golden in the candlelight, highlighting his rope-like strands of hair. For the first time, she noticed that his tousled mane had blood-red curls amongst the black. He looked murderous, utterly captivating. And yet, despite his enigmatic beauty, she saw a flaw within his handsome exterior. Something was not right with this man—something that she could not see, only feel as she stared upon the studious visage that was James Hook.

_What are you hiding from me?_ she wondered, praying that he was not reading her mind. _What is this foul illusion you wish me to see?_

But whether he was aware of her disquieting reservations, he remained silent as her pensive question went unanswered. Her only knowledge of his awareness was in the gentle caress he now educed against her numbed cheek. His head inclined, his eyes reflecting her awed expression within their dark centres. A coiled strand of ebony-red hair fell against her, blemishing her ivory cheek with its darkened skein. She barely suppressed an agonising shudder as he moved closer, his pale lips a breadth above hers.

With his empowering presence before her, Wendy felt a cool, unnatural breath escape him, as his eyes silently bespoke his darkest intent. And with a gentle calm, too profound for words, he dared to touch her. His hand sought her face; his hook drawing small invisible circles on her arm. "Oh, Wendy," he gently uttered into the darkness, "it does not have to be this way between us."

Her head fell in disbelief. "But how else can it be?" she dared to question him, and her eyes locked with his. "How can we be anything more than what we are now? You are my captor, sir; and seeing the circumstances that now lay before me, I cannot assume that you would show any decent kindness in returning me to where I truly belong—with my family and those who love me." She shook her head, fighting back the tears of a home and family so far away. "They must be terribly worried; I have to return," she murmured, her hopeful expression trying to seek out the one soft space in his otherwise stone heart.

"Please," she whispered, "I do not know what vengeful design it is that you plan, but I ask that you return me. I am truly regretful for what has happened to you, but I cannot change it, nor help you." She closed her tearstained eyes in forced resignation. "As you said: Peter will not come for me. So why keep me, when he will not come?"

And as she uttered this, a stroke of abject silence fell between pirate and captive, bathing the cabin with its disturbing presence. Wendy held her breath as she awaited the captain's answer; part of her expecting another tantrum of rage at her plea, as the other part secretly prayed that he would see the truth in her words, and would thus return her to those who needed her most.

But it was not to be, when the tenderness of his touch became more infinite, purposeful in a way of placating her. Like the gentle teasing of a formless wind, so too was his touch just as indistinct, shapeless in its persistence in advocating the one it sought to torment. For his defining touch was her answer: he would not let her go.

"You know that I will not do as such, Wendy," he said at last. "I cannot and will not let you go—not when I must have you here. You think it to be merely my revenge against Pan, but it is so much more than that." His soothing words fell away, unveiling a subtle show of pain as his darkened face revealed his inner disquiet. He stood before her, bearing a shred of his own anguish, which, until now, had remained hidden, undefined by his anomalous purpose. As his eyes, those eyes filled with the sadness of the world, beseeched her, their turbulent depths a storm of indecision. For it was this vulnerable show of humility, that now made Wendy doubt her original mistrust of this man.

But just as she reconsidered her own misgivings, the sudden show of his human weakness vanished, making her again question if it had truly been there. The slight trace of her compassion then, too, departed as she once again placed a cautious barrier between them. Hook must have sensed her growing distrust of him, for his hand left her face; his daunting presence retreating as he abandoned her completely. "I believe you should retire for the evening, Miss Darling," he muttered darkly, the uncaring gleam of his eyes refusing to acknowledge her.

She watched him linger by the window, which was now bathed by the darkness of the night, its barred casing casting an ominous forewarning to the one who remained within its gilded cage of iron. Yet Hook said nothing in his defence in keeping her, only glared out of the detailed windowpanes, his eyes never leaving the waves in all their restless splendour. For he himself was much like those churning swells, Wendy reluctantly concluded, as she stared upon his rigid frame. She considered him in silence, secretly admitting that, despite his volatile nature and devious precision in the art of murder, he would remain like a statue of stone to her this night, cold and distant, like a heart already dead.

He seemed to read her thoughts again, for he turned to her, his face a mask of indifference. "I must ask that you desist from troubling yourself, for fear of my unpredictable nature. I can assure you, that you shall not fall under my hook's displeasure tonight. So rest well, Wendy Darling." And without another word, he left her to the silence and the bitter prison that was now her home.

Wendy did not notice his silent exodus, feeling only the numbness of his frigid presence, which would remain potent within the beautifully decorated cabin well after his departure. She vaguely took note of her surroundings, noticing that her initial impression of it had been wholly wrong: it was not a room filled with beauty, but a false representation of it—a warped reflection of the man who was now depriving her of his poisonous company. She sighed miserably at the absurdity and heartache of it all. Her eyes thus closed in marked defeat, his final words leaving a grave impression on her as he shut the prison door; the lock from without clicking soundly into place.

…

**Author's Note: First of all, my apologies for taking so long. I have just been too busy with college lately. And then having spring break and family—it is almost too much at times. (Sighs.) It is a mercy that I had time to actually edit and post this. But anyway, it is here and, dare I confess, fairly longer than the last chapter! I can assure everyone that future chapters of this story will be _far_ longer than this one. For some reason, I can make nothing brief.**

**Anyway, I dare hope everyone enjoyed the interaction between Hook and Wendy, chaotic and volatile as it was. And yes, I will admit that Hook may seem out of character. But really, he is not, as he has many secrets that he is unwilling to impart. And I must apologise as I, too, cannot divulge any for the moment. There are so many mysteries, secrets, and hidden intentions that I cannot even begin to explain. Really, this story is, in part, a mystery—that is partly unwound by each chapter. I can only caution everyone to read carefully, as some hints/clues are interwoven within my writing. When something seems figurative, it may also be literal, as this is how intensely overwhelming this story will be. **

**Again, I do apologise if my subtleties have confused anyone. I have done all of this on purpose. Meticulous as I am can ill afford to spoil anything, as all will be revealed by the end. And trust me; it is well _worth_ the wait. Especially for those of us romantics who enjoy a deep, passionate romance/drama where things are not always what they seem. **

**Once again, I want to thank all of you for reading and reviewing! It means a lot to me! Thanks!**


	6. Chapter Five: Her Faded Illusion, Broken

Disclaimer: I do not own _Peter Pan_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners.

Promise of the Last Kiss

Chapter Five

Dawn finally broke against the Neverland's dusky horizon. The twilight strands of darkness ebbed against the ivory shores as they emerged from the roiling sea. Neverbirds sang in praise to the nascent light of the sun that now brimmed with its golden radiance, its warmth affecting every being that thrived under its divine touch. The night-time shadows and dark shades solely born of Erebus also held captive under the severe scrutiny of the ever-burning star; as they were consumed by it, fettered in luminous chains by its immaculate presence. For much like the boy who brought endless spring and summer to the island, the sun reigned once more over its darker sibling, and thus brought another day to those who never aged.

The lush and verdant isle reflected the teeming life it maintained; the strident, yet deft, call of Indian war chants echoed against the waterfalls that, in turn, resonated with their own amaranthine song. A multitude of flickering lights, each individual in its own distinct colouring and vibrant luminosity, shimmered as only faeries can during the birth of a long-anticipated sunrise. Even the naiads, whose icy touch could freeze the flesh of a feverish man, watched as their dark world edged against the breaking of a new day.

Everything in the Neverland seemed as it should: the warm, lilting sway of the easterly wind teasing the trees with its breezy laugh as it imparted a droll comment on the matter of faerie dust and elvish lore. Even the flowers would talk of idle nonsense as pixies, dew sprites, and other magical creatures of the Seelie court regaled them with tales of faraway lands where children grew up, only to become massive giants who refused to play at Peter Pan—the one child who abhorred the idea of growing up and becoming a man himself.

These children, whom the Seelies often deemed enchanted, were raped of their innocence; their disillusionment compelling them to forget the truest of all things that is inherently known to all under the tender age of seven: their knowledge of a world beyond the constraints of following rules and ticking time clocks. A world where no one would ever have to think about growing up and becoming something that was so completely alien and horribly maladjusted as that of an adult.

For this it was for those innocent children who lost everything, their will to believe vanquished, destroyed by those who sought to protect them most. And no longer would they find comfort in simply knowing a fact, always questioning it with logic and tedious postulations that even the greatest philosopher would remain uncertain as to the real answer, but confident that it lay within a mass of congealed numbers and theorems composed by one such arduous mind two millennia before.

As it is this harsh reality that all forget what it is to be a child; to live beyond the remainder of a work day and see past a nebulous cloud of forgetting. Yet such random notions are deemed ludicrous by some, unsound as most can no longer recall what it is to fly, or even believe that flowers can speak at all.

And yet, to the greatest logician, the Neverland defied all logic and sense of the word. The scientific world would tilt on its methodical axis if such a place became more than just a child's wistful fancy. The idea of dancing faeries, wild Indian savages who played their tom-toms during the heat of a tribal battle, even cutthroat pirates with a mass of tattoos covering their person challenged reason as the isle itself, which was now bathed in beauty far beyond the definition of paradise, stood as a jeering testament to what men of reason actually knew. But even more, was the strange, eerie laugh of a single child, whose careless mirth could be heard within the distance. As it was this singular, almost innocent sound, that brought a sense of normality to the land of unending childhood.

And so it was that Wendy listened, trying to hear the familiar crow she had once heard in her youth.

But no cry, emitted by bird or beast, dared mimic that fearless call which all children long to hear, as it went unheard by all who took care to listen. And at this somewhat reluctant, yet admitted defeat, Wendy haplessly watched from the barred casement, hoping to see a small figure, no larger than a grain of sand, dart above the large, impenetrable canopy of the treetops. Her hopeful expression waned, however, and her eyes dimmed as time passed, the vibrant morning light falling to the blinding radiance of the noonday.

If one were to ask how long she had stood there and waited for a sign from her childhood hero, Wendy would be unable to answer, for even she did not know. In truth, it seemed as if mere seconds had passed, when in reality it had been hours—hours in which she stood, her frail body weighted down by the wedding dress she still wore. A sigh, fraught by tireless waiting, narrowly escaped from its cumbersome confines, the whalebone corset digging into the blemished skin that it greedily encased. The captive bride scarcely felt the driving pain of being constrained, feeling only the dull, rigid ache of wearing the itinerant prison for two days.

Oh, she dared not recall her previous anguish, when she had blindly searched the cabin for another suit of clothes, which, to her dismay, was utterly useless since there were none to be found. She inwardly despaired; for not even in the massive chest of drawers or vanity—which had both been bolted down as with the rest of the furniture—did she find one single article that could be used to cover her. She recoiled at the memory of having to resort to wearing her wedding gown, sans the corset. It had indeed been an ordeal lacing the damnable prison when she awoke, yet was mercifully left without any male company happening upon a chance to see her state of undress.

She shook her head at the scandalous thought. Even during her meandering search the night before, could she not help but harbour a sickening sense of dread. The captain's brusque departure—notwithstanding her own uncertainties in his abandoning her newly deemed quarters entirely—had made her quiver with the possibility that he would return and enforce his pirately rights upon her. At this, she groaned in an unladylike fashion; the very notion of her being his _booty_ made her stomach lurch in disgust. For God only knew what dark intentions he had planned.

His vengeance, if that it truly was, offended her, just as his very presence made her feel…unnatural. To confess the very heart of it, it was as if her soul warred with her mind, reason falling away to childish inanity. She could still feel him tormenting her with the entirety of his body, his looming frame sending electrifying sensations throughout her, thus jolting the affected flesh where his hand had touched hers.

Wendy shuddered at the apparition of that phantom hand, its ghostlike touch evoking memories best left forgotten. And yet, the more she considered these strange, namelessly aberrant sensations, the more she was afraid of him, frightened that he had somehow poisoned her mind during their long, nightly discussions over the years. Yet to her regret, she recalled many of their idle talks; each of which seemed to have happened so frightfully long ago, but yet so recent as their last quarrel over her marrying another.

She slightly frowned, recalling his grating voice as it pierced her mind with its strident threats. He had all but struck her, his anger, an impenetrable sphere of adamant rage, unparalleled by even that of a Myrmidon prince, had compelled her, terrifying her. He had been furious with her, demanding that she call off the wedding. His harsh reprimand of her deceiving everyone, including herself, had been a cutting blow to her pride when he continued his cruelty with lies of caring for her. Her frown deepened, and her eyes darkened. Hook had never cared for her, not as her family did, and most certainly not as Henry had. For how could an amoral man, who commandeered a slew of merciless cutthroats, care for anything but his lust for conquest and vengeance?

No, a man like James Hook cared for nothing and no one. She was only a means to an end, a tragic pawn on his elaborate chessboard of intrigue. In the end, she would be at a stalemate with him, his purpose in keeping her a pretence as to his true endeavour; where she would thus fall to his sinister mercy, the unspeakable pain of his inner hostility unleashed by his need to hurt and humiliate those who dared to defy him—those who once saw to his defeat and sealed his doom by chanting him into the ever-gaping jaws of the crocodile.

Closing her eyes, she tried to subdue the horrid memory. Yet strangely, a new thought—just as portentous as its predecessor—came to mind. For in a way, she quietly considered, he was _almost_ justified in his revenge against them. Her abduction had left very little doubt that he would pursue the rest, as both Darling son and former Lost Boy fell under the curved malice of his hook. And Peter, cocky and boyishly artful wonder, would certainly succumb to the handless captain's treachery if his nemesis repeated history and brought all into his vengeful custody.

Her eyes widened at this forbidding outcome, and her steady breathing came to a halted standstill. She could not allow this inevitable end, where all would yield with the forfeit of their lives. No, not when she could somehow circumvent these grave tidings by offering the captain something in exchange: herself. She would offer her very life if he would cease in this bitter pursuit, and take his vengeance upon her alone. Perhaps then he would forget about Peter and the rest. Perhaps then he would—

A knock at the door stifled all hopeful aspirations as the sounding of a lock being turned forced Wendy to acknowledge who now stood beyond the cabin's threshold. She held her breath as the rusted knob shifted, a sigh of relief thus escaping when the slightly dithering figure of Smee came forth, a covered tray in hand.

"A good mornin' ta ye, Miss Wendy," the bo'sun greeted as he managed to shut the door with his tattered boot.

Wendy could not help but smile at his fumbling antics as he carefully set the tray on the table. "And a good morning to you, Mr. Smee," she returned with equal civility.

The boatswain glanced up from his handiwork, his wrinkled smile mirroring hers. "I apol'gise fer not coming wit' yer breakfast sooner, but the marquis insisted that it be perfect an' all," he mumbled; shoulders sagging, his wavering expression conveying shame and regret for his tardiness.

"'Tis quite all right, Mr. Smee," Wendy gently assured him, her hand carefully consoling a flaccid shoulder. "I usually partake in my breakfast near midday, anyway." Her confident smile widened, her words not wholly a lie.

"Thank ye, Miss Wendy," Smee muttered ashamedly, his eyes not meeting hers. "Ye be too kind of a lass ta be showin' any kindness fer me faults."

The captive bride gaped at his pitiable declaration, feeling affronted by the knowledge that no one had ever shown any sentiment akin to compassion for this kind soul. He had even taken the consideration of bringing her orange juice, which was indeed a rarity to be had among sailing vessels, much less have half a pitcher at her disposal. In this she could not fault him, not since she had awakened to this hellish nightmare. And though true it was that she had once reviled this dithering old man almost as much as Hook's former crew, she could not bring herself to despise him now—nor the others, for Smee, along with this newly endorsed crew, had been nothing but kind to her.

And after a long abated silence of muted self-reflection, Wendy found her tongue. "I find no fault with your work, Mr. Smee; I assure you," she replied pragmatically. "You have been nothing but kind, considerate to my needs here. And I must thank you for that, for I am truly grateful, and am indebted to you, as well as the others for welcoming me so openly on your ship." Her hand tightened on his slumped shoulder. "Your works have not gone unappreciated by me. As I know that you must have had some experience in serving people,"—She looked down, truly awed by his meticulous manner in setting the table—"since you have set the table far better than my brothers ever could."

The aging pirate smiled at this, finding grace in the beautiful creature before him. "Oh, Miss Wendy," he murmured like an appreciative child gifted with a toy long denied him. "Ye are truly what the master said ye'd be: a wonderful, compassionate lady who cares fer evry'ne, even those who don't deserve it." His eyes brightened at his words, as if convinced in the truth behind them. He leaned forward then, his white head inclining as if to whisper a secret. And what Wendy heard next turned her world on its axis:

"He was right ta save ye, miss; ye brought him out of his darkness, ye did." He shook his head in a childlike manner, his beaming expression glowing, despite the wealth of sunlight in the cabin. "He has spoken only of ye, since ye left. Why, he even 'ad this cabin made, should ye ever return ta us. An' ye did, miss, ye did," he added, truly grateful. His hand then rested upon hers. "Ye bring joy back ta this ship. The crew admires ye, as I do. But most import'ntly, I can now see me Master James as the man he once was. An' fer that, I must thank ye."

With this heartfelt admission, Wendy stood in silence, gaping at the little man. His brief disclosure had surprised her, baffling her standard convictions in condemning his _master_. And once again she found herself completely dumbfounded by his crazed assertions. She could scarcely imagine Hook actually intrigued and speaking fondly of the one who aided in his defeat; his many conversations with the bo'sun were surely spent on how he would make her suffer, no doubt. For it was impossible to imagine him speaking of her otherwise.

But yet, she could not resist from placing an ounce of trust in the blithering seaman's garbled words. What if, perchance, Hook _had_ changed? What if he was not set on revenge as she had originally believed? He had not said that her being with him was for that purpose, not exactly. The heated exchange the night before was still an impenetrable blur to her, as she barely recalled his angered departure. But even then he never mentioned any intent in harming her or the others. In truth, it seemed almost the opposite…

And with this forthcoming advent of pained acceptance, she felt compelled to know more; not of James Hook, but of the man whom Smee had once admired. With a gentle show of consideration, she acknowledged the bo'sun with an endearing smile; her eyes alight with deep enquiry as she bade him to take a seat across from her, which he gladly did without hesitation. Wendy inwardly praised his trust in being around her before she began to probe him with questions, questions in which he might not feel inclined to answer.

Nevertheless, she would take this chance in upsetting his already fragile mind; she _had_ to know the truth about her captor, despite her conscience railing against such impropriety. The mystery that forever shrouded the menacing Hook would be unveiled at last, and she by no means would hesitate in questioning the man sitting across from her if he knew only a little of the master he claimed to know. In fact, she realised that Smee alone held the answer to all of the riddles. And as such, she felt no hesitation in asking him the answer to at least one.

"Mr. Smee, I realise that this may seem a bit forward of me, but would you care to tell me about your master? I am curious as to how long you have known him. It seems as if you have since he was very young," she said without fault, her voice not quavering with the dread she secretly felt.

Smee cocked his head to the side, his spectacled grey eyes considering her. "I've known the master's family since way afore he was born," he answered quietly, though his voice held a note of interest. "Why do ye ask, Miss Wendy?"

Wendy blushed heavily under his dulled scrutiny, casting a nervous glance at the table. "I fear that I know very little of him, Mr. Smee," she replied emphatically, before shifting her gaze to him, the dark colouring of her eyes revealing the truth behind her words. "I was very young when I first came to the Neverland. And even then, I had not the chance to know the captain well, since we had very little time before…"

Smee nodded in understanding. "I know, Miss Wendy; I understand," he muttered apologetically. "Those were dark times when ye were 'ere, an' darker even when ye left." His eyes grew troubled then, as if revealing something too painful to express in words. "An' I know, fer a fact, that even though he never shown it, the anguish the master felt when he found ye gone wit' that hell-spawn Pan an' his hoard of demons, was enough ta drive a man mad. He mentioned, several times, of 'ow he'd rescue ye, an' bring ye back ta us." He shook his head at the memory of it, his tremulous voice falling in defeat. He remained silent for a moment, as if too dispirited to continue. But as he watched her placid expression mar into one of confusion, he felt obliged to tell her everything.

"I found him after that monster 'ad its way wit' him in its gut; bloody an' battered, an' wit' nought but his skin ta cover him," he duly explained. "He looked almost like Jones himself, beaten an' broken, an' left fer dead. I barely recognised him, what wit' the blood from his wounds an' tangled mass of hair. Why, his own mother woulda been unable ta recognise him, God rest her poor soul." He made a silent sign of the cross and continued. "'Deed, he could barely move, let alone breathe since four of his ribs 'ad been cracked. But he managed ta survive; much like his father, that one," he beamed proudly, despite his sadness. "I wouldn't 'ave imagined him ta live through sech by guttin' the beast wit' that hook of his. But he did, bless him." He then smiled, almost ruefully. "'Twas a shame he lost it, though; it was his favourite."

Wendy returned his teasing sentiment, albeit half-heartedly. The boatswain's revelation was not what she had anticipated—far from it, actually. For to imagine Hook truly suffering, feeling emotions akin to those any human would undeniably feel dispelled any resentment she had for him during those few, dangerous moments before his alleged demise. It was, to a degree, difficult to imagine him going through so much adversity, only to survive as a bloodied, broken mass of a man who had lost everything—at the hands of a proud and insolent youth who was as old as the stars themselves. He must have acquired many scars from his fighting against the massive beast's stomach, slowly cutting his way through the impenetrable network of scales and thick tissue. It was little wonder that he had survived at all.

But eve more, how much of Smee's account had been true? After all, the bo'sun was clearly out of his mind, prattling on about how his master was not Hook. It was as if he had separated his beloved master from the notorious bloodthirsty captain, making them two diverse entities, only to become one in the same by their like features and torrential nature. It was a mystery to her, as she could not fathom why the weathered pirate would do so, for he was quite loyal to Hook in the days of her youth. What had made him change loyalties so? And who was James Hook, exactly? Who was this _master_ whom Smee praised far above the price of rubies?

Gathering her courage, she managed to gain his fleeting attention by revealing a concerned frown. "Mr. Smee, I know it must be painful for you tell me of how you master has suffered," she began, praying that he would understand, "but I _must_ know more of him. I must know about this man—who is he really, Mr. Smee? Who is this man whom you have served under for so long? Please, tell me; it is all I ask."

"Oh, Miss Wendy," Smee started, his pale eyes clouding over with a wealth of long neglected memories. He looked at her sorrowfully, eyes almost rampant with unshed tears. Wendy held her breath, for fear of a sudden outburst of emotion. Yet, despite his poignant expression, the bo'sun remained calm, giving in to his master's charge. He would tell her everything, if she so desired. And he knew that she had many, many questions concerning the man who saved her from a life of pain and misery. Of course she would want to know about his master, and understand that no harm would come to her, not when his beloved Master James was here to look after her.

With this comforting thought in mind, Smee had the will to speak of things long forgotten; things which would bring both joy and pain to the one who heard them, for there were many things that shaped and moulded a man with such a common name as James. _But yet,_ thought Smee, _sech a man was not so common, not anymore._

"Ye be right, miss," he carefully acceded, "ye need ta know about the master. 'Tis time ye knew the truth about him, an' disregard all the lies an' rot those wretched demons"—He spat at the alleged demons—"told ye. He was sech a fine lad when he was young, always curious 'bout the world an' what lay beyond it. Never 'ad much fer school or learnin' 'bout figgers. Loved to read, though. Still does, when he 'as the time ta." A gentle smile pervaded his rugged face, and his eyes thus brightened.

Wendy noticed Smee's sudden look of happiness, and was inwardly taken aback by it, for the boatswain seemed to know Hook long before he turned to a life of piracy. And even stranger, was the way he spoke of the nefarious captain, as if the man were a young boy, curious of the world as all children are. It almost gave her captor a tangible feel of humanity—something in which she never believed he had.

"Mr. Smee," Wendy began, almost timidly, "how long have you been with Captain Ho—I mean your Master James?"

The bo'sun grinned, heedless of Wendy's slight omission. "Why, I imagine it bein' a mite over twenty years wit' him at sea—not countin' the years when he was a troublesome lad, who thought only of 'avin' adventures an' the like. Wanted to write them down in a book one day, too," he added, not noticing his mistress' paling look. "Aye, he was sech an inventive boy; 'avin' a wild imagination, like any other lad his age. Though I doubt he ever got that out of his system all the way. Still craves adventure on the high seas." He sighed, and then smiled at her. "Ye seem ta be the same as me Master James, miss. Ye've got that curiosity about ye, too."

"I somehow doubt that." Wendy blushed awkwardly. "I fear that, unlike the captain, my need for adventures has long since left me, Mr. Smee. I am sadly, quite grown up now."

"So ye are, miss. So ye are," Smee agreed wholeheartedly. "But that doesn't mean that yer love fer the sea 'as gone wit' it. No, 'deed not. I daresay ye love it as much as the master, ye do," he aptly reasoned, and then gave an encouraging wink that made her all the more curious. "An' I will say this, Miss Wendy: that like ye, the master was born ta sail the seas. He studied sailin' ships, merchant ones, corsairs, even the naval ones that Her Majesty used ta track down our lot wit'.

"But even then, he preferred brigs an' the smaller sloops. Better fer speed, he said." His gormless grin widened then. "But aye, 'tis true he was aware of the dangers on the oceanfront, still he always wanted ta 'ave his own ship. An' I knew that, even then, he was meant ta be a captain of one a true beauty. He was meant ta be a good leader, a fair man who would master the seas an' tame squalls inta passin' showers." He sighed, as if recalling memories long since forgotten. And not surprisingly, these idly spoken recollections had inadvertently intrigued his captive audience as she urged him to continue. And with a gentle show of consent, he generously obliged her.

"The lad knew 'ow ta manage the sails an' riggin', even afore he was in his tenth year." He shook his head in silent wonder, not heeding the strange, enquiring gaze the young woman gave him. "No, Miss Wendy, the master 'as always been one of the sea; a natural born pirate, if ye will. He surprised every'ne, as I recall. An' his father could be no prouder." He halted briefly, a formation of what seemed as tears tainted his spectacled eyes. He remained silent for a moment, trying to compose himself, but failing miserably. Yet after a moment's reservation, the older man managed to force away his remaining weakness, a forced smile replacing unspoken sorrow.

A dark and impenetrable silence thus followed the bo'sun's narrative. Nothing was said as the captive bride and the captain's bo'sun remained quietly seated, deep in thought. Wendy was almost moved to speak, but it was Smee who broke the silence.

"But enough of stories, miss. I best be on me way; the master'll see ye shortly." He tipped his ragged hat to her; but before he could take his leave, the door opened of its own accord, revealing another—cloaked and hooded in the darkest of ebony—in its threshold. Wendy could not discern whom it was that gained Smee's attention, since he approached the silent stranger like a scolded child, and thus blocking her sight with his bulky frame. A whisper of wind penetrated the open entryway as the blustering bo'sun made short, stifled apologies to the hooded figure, his head hung low.

But in spite of Smee's sincere snivelling, a gentle voice, almost indefinable, comforted him. "There is no need for that; you have done all that I asked," it quietly returned, and the Irishman smiled.

"I did as ye required, sir. The crew is makin' way fer the barrier even as we speak."

The silhouetted figure nodded in understanding. "And how long shall it be before we reach our destination?"

The bo'sun shook his head, trying to calculate the time needed. After a long, trying moment in assessing figures, he answered, "Not much more'n a week, I'd say. The wind is on our side fer the nonce; an' if it prevails, we will be there within a sennight."

An invisible grin touched the shadow's lips. "Very good, then. We shall stay the course as planned, as I see no storms on the horizon," the voice said, visibly pleased by the boatswain's calculations, but added as the man turned to leave, "And…Mr. Smee, I ask the crew be reminded to steer clear of the island and Indian camp, since the tide will try to sway us in that direction."

Smee gave a diligent nod to his master, who now revealed himself by removing the cloak's concealing hood. "Aye, sir."

Hook regarded his subordinate with strained confidence, mindful that the addle-minded man would probably forget himself during a flustered fit of giving orders to the wilful crew. In this, he would not give his bo'sun the chance.

"But most importantly of all, we must remain far from the Mermaid's Lagoon," the captain reminded him, fully aware that their conversation was being observed. Cautiously lowering his grating voice, he murmured, "Make sure we remain unseen. I will not have any of Pan's legion following us beyond the barrier." His eyes gleamed with a faint shade of crimson, his ominous assurance of the crew's failure remaining unspoken.

A look of fear pervaded the bo'sun's craggy face, as terror dawned upon his weathered features. "Of…of course, sir! As ye wish, sir," he stuttered, and with a considerate nod to Wendy, made his way out of the cabin, carefully shutting the door behind him.

The unease that followed Smee's abrupt departure pierced through the lingering stillness, the unsettling exchange leaving a very confused Wendy in question of the captain's motives behind evading the Neverland completely. She mulled over this puzzling conjecture before her attention was ineluctably drawn to the man who stood unnervingly at the cabin door, his blue eyes watching her as a lion would its captive prey.

She inwardly shuddered, feeling that searing intent within those discoloured eyes. She said nothing of her suspicions, however, bearing in mind that she would only anger him. The memory of their previous discourse was a jeering testament to his unpredictable nature, and she refused to incite his infamous ire further. And so they stood: captor and unwilling captive, eyes locked in a wordless battle for power. And for the passage of a perilous moment, Wendy looked upon him, her crude abductor, and saw that his eyes had never left her. His stare, as ever before, held the unnerving quality of penetrating her resolve and looking into her soul, only to find the frightened child who still quavered at the mere mention of his name.

As she considered this, she vaguely noticed him vacate the cabin's threshold and approach her with the skilled intent of speaking to her. He uttered her given name in reverence as he gently, if not secretively, retrieved something wrapped in crème-coloured paper, meticulously tied with a skein of black ribbon. The parcel, which had been carefully hidden in the folds of his cloak, was then presented to her.

"This is for you," he whispered, holding it carefully with his remaining hand as the hook balanced one of its rounded edges.

Wendy looked at it, uncertainty clouding her suspicious eyes before she felt his subtle urging in accepting it. She did so with a mark of hesitation, feeling the slight weight of it as it made her question the contents within.

"Cease this dawdling about and open it, my beauty," he gently urged, visibly impatient with her hesitance. He glared at her with a hint of irritation, but delighted when she guardedly obeyed him, her nimble fingers unravelling the loose black ribbon, the white paper then falling as her hands trembled in trepidation. A gentle intake of breath was his only answer as he watched her unfold his gift in the light of the afternoon sun.

A dress made of fine English tulle and exotic Chinese satin captured the river of light beaming in from the cabin window, the delicate fabric reflecting colours of the dusky midnight sky. An intricate pattern of imprinted flowers, sewn in a lower level of cerulean-blue satin, collided against an upper layer of filmy lavender tulle; a sash, the colour of dark-green turquoise, complemented the clashing hues with its overlying beauty.

The greater part of the bodice was completed with a thin skein of white lace, as the corset, the same entrancing blue as the main part of the dress, was ironically laced in a light shade of pink, thus enhancing the already wondrous gown's allure. Puffy sheer sleeves, which could singularly hail from fashions of the early eighteenth century, added a dose of the classical romanticism of days long since passed, now only existent in the weathered, ink-stained pages of history. A small bouquet of silk flowers, found at the left side of the sash, finished the gown with its subtle completion.

Overall, the dress seemed fit for a queen or a highborn lady of society, not for a banking clerk's daughter. Wendy could barely withhold her disbelief in the existence of such a finely-crafted garment; much less believe that it was made for her, and strangely in her size. She looked up from the mass of expensive fabric, her eyes falling upon the man who had gifted her with this priceless keepsake. _Why_, she wanted to ask. But secretly, she already knew the answer as his eyes bespoke his purpose behind the gift.

"You seem surprised, my dear," he commented graciously as his hand darted into the delicate folds of the gown, where an inside pocket lay hidden. His agile fingers retrieved a small white box, wrapped in the same paper and trimmings as the dress had been. "This is also for you." He placed the diminutive parcel in the palm of her hand, and teasingly whispered, "I ask that you open it without that noisome aversion of yours this time."

Wendy flushed at his words, but minded him, nonetheless. Once again, she carefully loosened the dark strips of satin; as the white paper, meticulously decorated with inky black flowers, fell to the floor. A small, dark wooden box then lay—its case still closed—in the palm of her paling hand. Her eyes widened, and her heart quavered as realisation dawned over her, for in the palm of her ivory hand rested a jewellery box.

An arduous moment fell between them, and Wendy found herself transfixed by the small black box she held, scarcely noticing that Hook eclipsed it with his own hand. She allowed him to take the box without protest, her outward fear rendering her silent. She watched him open it, his fingers moving deftly as they opened the latch to reveal the hidden treasure from within: for there, nestled within a piece of crème-white satin lay a simple pink ribbon—the same colour as the stays in the gown's corset—unbound by its desire for a new wearer. Wendy's eyes settled upon the ordinary skein, until her gaze settled upon a small silver bauble, which was crafted in the shape of a rose, yet to bud in its eventual beauty. The small pendant was, as she noticed upon closer inspection, attached to the ribbon, making the necklace all the more intriguing.

"There is a bracelet, as well," Hook quietly intoned, revealing the other rose-coloured strand. "However, unlike the necklace, it has no need for a bauble. The lady who wears such a wristlet is said to enhance her beauty by the simplicity shown in her lack of decorum," he explained as he moved to lace it around her wrist, only to see her draw away from his touch. He watched her bemused expression melt into one of disgust, and then to one of anger.

Wendy glared at the ribbon, and then at his offending hand. "You expect to win me over with mere…_trinkets?"_ she asked, heavy scorn laced within her dulcet voice. She shook her dark head in flagrant disbelief. "How dare you think that you can turn my head with such frivolities? I am not some willowy cipher who can be so easily seduced into believing your kind show of courtesy, captain. If you believe that, then it will all be for nought, since I have had many suitors subtly enlace their intentions more cleverly, compared to your blatant show of _compassion_," she curtly retorted, shoving the expensive gown into his arms. "Give those to some witless girl who actually believes in your false affections. I will take nothing from you!"

An ominous silence, filled with grim foreboding, soon followed in the wake of the captive bride's anger. Hook said nothing as he held the rejected gifts within his now stiffened arms. He remained silent, the only hint of his inner ire seen in the slight tremor his hand emitted, his hook inert against the refused gown. His eyes fell to it, considering it as a sneer tainted his expressionless face.

"You are nothing more than a selfish, spoiled child, Wendy Darling," he coldly admonished, his eyes glaring callously at the discarded garment. Warily his hook caressed the sheer lavender fabric, cautious in its movements against the delicate stitching. He stared at it before the iciness of his gaze shifted to her, the yellow shards within the frosty-blue of his eye willing her to heed him. "I have given you everything you could ever want: I was there to comfort you when you needed it; I took you away from the pain and misery that was your existence; I even gave you a new home on my ship, with a loyal crew to do your bidding, and yet you throw it all in my face. You are blind, Wendy Darling—blind to everything, even the truth."

With this cruel remark on her dignity, Wendy could bear his lies no longer, her anger in his abducting her coming to light at last. "What truth?" she returned grimly. "How can I believe one who is the greatest deceiver of all?" She closed her tearstained eyes, refusing to show a fleck of weakness in front of him. And so she stood before his brooding figure, partially afraid to speak. But after a long, derisive moment, she gathered the courage to mutter, "How can I believe one who has lied and deceived me, only to gain his vengeance in turn?" She then looked at him, gravely; her dark eyes accusing, hurt beyond measure. "I trusted you, believed in you. I thought you cared for me…" she whispered, almost to herself. "But you only wanted me to play your pawn in this game of revenge. You never cared, never wanted to—"

"Enough!" he roared, his fury leaching out into that one uttered word. Wendy almost fell in her evasion of his harsh reprimand, noting the silent promise of retribution in his voice. And such was his indignation that he barred her from speaking out in defence, his chivalrous demeanour dissipating, and leaving only the fierce pirate captain in its wake. For gone was the caring voice whose considerate nature always calmed her during these idle bouts of fear. Since the voice, as Wendy sadly came to realise, was no more. As the man who perpetuated it from the depths of his now discordant timbre evoked the wrath that would put even war gods to shame.

And so, as the gods on high reigned in perpetual silence, Wendy watched her captor with growing dread, the gentle placidity in his eyes reflecting an abhorrent shade of forget-me-not blue. "I will not be subjected to your idiocy a moment longer," he spat. "I grow tired of your vilifying me at every cross and turn, as I utterly loathe what conclusions you have drawn about my bringing you here." His hand grasped one of hers, and forcefully pulled her to his side. "You have not the slightest inclination of my intentions, nor should you presume what they are."

"Captain, I—" Wendy tried to interject, but was silenced once again by his commanding voice.

"And I will not be made a fool in front of my crew. For if you so dare as to make mention of your staying here under false pretences, I will execute each crew member you tell your story to. Would you want that, Wendy? Would you enjoy being accountable for the lives unnecessarily lost on this ship? Be wary, my beauty, for their fates now rest in your _lovely_ hands," he whispered menacingly in her ear, his cool breath causing her to tremble.

Hook smiled at this subtle show of submission. Very soon she would realise her careless thoughts and voiced threats would come to nought in her futile attempt to escape. Oh, yes, he was quite aware of her intentions in leaving him when he was caught unawares by some unseen diversion, undoubtedly mastered by her own clever hand. But being the considerate gentleman he was, he would even give her the chance to plot her flight, for he was a man not wholly without heart. But her effort—albeit wholly wrought in vain—would then make her see that escape was impossible, since he would always have the upper-hand. In truth, her mind was her greatest weakness, a subconscious traitor who yielded to one far more advanced in the psyche and its inherent workings than most seers.

Already she had begun to understand that his strangely arcane abilities rivalled any foe—real or imagined—that she had ever been drawn against. And yet, he was not the vile, heartless villain whose relentless pursuit in a well-contrived stratagem of revenge, which led to his pursuing and eventual capturing of her, made him the dark entity that she so effortlessly imagined—far from it. But if her persistence in defying him continued, he would have to be forceful with her, if not be brutal in his elucidating her. And though he hated to resort to such means, he would, no matter the pain it secretly gave him.

Harbouring this unforeseen truth deep within his heart, his hand loosened its crushing grip to a gentle caress. His head inclined and his cheek grazed against hers, teasing her tender skin with his dark bristles. "You are such a foolish young woman at times," he gently scolded her. "You know so little of me that you judge so mercilessly, casting about a harsh sentence upon a man you fear." He turned to her, his face a cold mask of firm resolve, as his words that followed left her reeling long after they were uttered: "I can break you, Wendy Darling. I can twist you, turn you, and bend you to my will. You have not the power to elude me."

His abrasive words left no room for argument, as his harsh reprimand still lingered intensely between them. Wendy turned her head away; utterly humiliated. She wavered in her step, still feeling the lashing sting of his reproach. Indeed, the man who now struck her with the force of his cutting words could be chivalrous at times, his cavalier demeanour echoing the heroic sanguinity found in love sonnets and epic poems. But yet, his mood could change as swiftly as the western wind in its temperament, and thus reveal the raging tempest that brewed deeply from within.

Even so, she remained steadfast against his _charity_, refusing whatever kindness he offered under a white flag of truce. He must have seen her determination, or at least sensed her hatred with his unnatural ability, for he quickly drew away from her, the dress and jewellery cast unapologetically to the floor. He briefly considered the fallen gown and its matching adornments until his eyes found hers, the intensity of his watery stare hardening.

"You do not have to wear something that offends you so," his voice echoed the frigidity of a thousand forgotten winters. "You can grace the world with that whorish garb that whelp gave you as you wear it for all to see. Wear it until your dying day, if you must." He gave considerate pause as any man of noble bearing would for a lady, and thus appositely broached, "You can even rot in it. I will not waste my _charity_ upon someone who clearly does not need it."

And with this cold, unmoving utterance, he turned on his heel and slammed the cabin door, leaving a very hurt and confused Wendy behind.

…

That evening Wendy stood by the railing on the main deck, a quiet and somewhat observant Smee at her side. Hours had passed since her unfortunate encounter with the captain, leaving her lost and forlorn. It had only been by the sheer mercy of the captain's bo'sun to take pity on her and allow her to leave the stifling confines of the cabin. However, any kind word she imparted to the boatswain had died in her throat the moment he escorted her among the crew—who still remained hard at work in the dimming daylight hours. No one had even dared to look at her, as all were fully aware of their captain's foul mood. They could only surmise what had occurred between their commander and the lady who still wore her wedding dress like a second skin.

Most of the ghoulish crew looked up from their menial tasks and cast a wary glance at her, expressing their unified sympathy. But despite this subtle show of compassion, she did not acknowledge them, as she was impervious to everything—everything, except what had transpired in the cabin and the cruel words her captor imparted. She secretly harboured the pain it gave her, her thoughts returning to the discarded gown and jewellery that had been cast aside by an ever-wrathful Hook…

_The lock apathetically turned, as it had the previous night, shutting her in from the light and the world beyond her gilded cage. An instance of wrath seeped through the stagnant air, its hatred imprinted upon everything that it touched. Even the dress, which was now a discarded heap of satin and tulle, felt to its unattainable mercy. Beside it, the rose bauble lay within a crumpled mass of ribbon, its silver surface still attached to its ravelling chain._

_The captive bride looked at the gift, now rebuffed by both she and the one who had gifted it. Her captor had not even considered keeping the expensive offering, where he had left it as a dark reminder of her selfishness. And selfish she was, for she felt like a child who had been ungrateful to one who had shown only kindness, compassion for her hardship. The wedding gown was a poor comparison to the dress that now lay, unwanted, upon the floor. The sight of it almost made her heart ache, feeling only remorse for her actions, and the cruelty she had unjustly given its giver._

_It was little wonder that he had refrained from gutting her with his hook. The restraint he had shown, combined with the wounded pride he certainly felt, made her realise her own guilt, as it welled within her, almost choking her. His thoughtfulness, though undeniably ill-intentioned, was enough to compel her to admit that she admired him in this single act of kindness. His gentle touch had been secretly welcomed before she pulled away, refusing his offer to fasten the bracelet. _

_To her misfortune, as it must be duly acknowledged, she had not seen the slight show of hurt in his eyes when she rejected him. Even the cold, forceful words that followed were only fragments of the rejection he must have felt. For even when she saw a faint trace of red in his eye, she knew the cruelty of her actions had inspired it. His momentary odium was derived, not by his own hatred, but from hers. He had even confessed as much, admitting that everything he had done, he had done for her—_never­ _for himself._

_And with this agonising sense of clarity, she fell to the floor, ignoring the dull, throbbing ache in her leg as she gathered the wrinkled gown and tangled jewellery into her arms, holding the rumpled mass as if it were a child dear to her. A barrage of tears fell from her eyes, and her trembling fingers traced over the delicate lacing, memorising each intricate stitch and seam. A heartrending sigh escaped into existence, the dress held closely against her breast. She held it silence for a moment more before she pulled herself, not without difficulty, away from the cold floor. She stumbled with the dress and ribbons, her gait faltering as she fell against the massive chest whose hollow drawers waited to be filled._

_Nervously her hands folded the gown, careful not to wrinkle it further. She unravelled the ribbons without thought as she placed them next to the gown and shut the drawer that once held nothing but emptiness…_

But even now, as she returned from those aching memories of only hours before, she felt the emptiness that was found in the drawer. It was the same, damning emptiness she felt each night after her accident. The only comfort besides a loving and understanding family had not from been Henry, for he was out of the country when it happened. No, her only comfort had been from one whom she thought only to be figment of her imagination, yet so much more.

And that same comforter had been rejected when he revealed himself to her. The irony behind the voice being the passionate villain of her stories was enough to drive the sanest person mad. If it had been anyone else but he, she could have easily accepted it, even have been relieved that it had not been her imagination that conjured up some glorified entity. But in spite of this desired sense of relief, she still felt dismayed that he had been the one who stayed with her, when no other would. As he was still with her, watching over her…

_Oh, what am I to do?_ she inwardly cried, oblivious of a very concerned Smee.

"Miss Wendy," he gently acknowledged, pulling the girl out of her thoughts.

Wendy gently sighed, giving the man a woeful smile. "Yes, Mr. Smee?"

The bo'sun, unable to recognise the hint of dejection within her voice, thought solely upon the question he was about to ask: "Would ye care ta sit wit' me an' the crew? They be finished wit' their day's work by now, an' would like a chance ta know more of the comely lass who 'as graced 'em wit' her presence."

Absently she nodded, and allowed him to lead her to the now disbanded crew, who gathered at the mainmast. She had been welcome easily enough, the myriad of ghostly faces expressing the same, universal smile of hidden delight. Even the ship's surgeon, Joshua Crane, joined them as they entreated their lady to a gentle conversation of the weather and their convening interests. They spoke of the sea, their place on deck, and even the simple intrigues that the world had to offer—but never of their lives beyond the Neverland.

It was indicative to Wendy that they evaded that subject entirely. Even Smee refrained from speaking of the beloved emerald isle that had once been his home. The Neverland, whether she wished to believe it or not, was so deeply encroached within their lives that they could barely think of anything other than the magic and dreams that became such a foreign and mysterious land. And so it seemed that they had forgotten—or at least disregarded—their lives in the real world. Except Hook, who seemed quite knowledgeable of the world's goings on, even in her time, since he spoke with the idiom and language of the present, and not one from the eighteenth century.

A slight frown marred her otherwise flawless face as she considered this. But after a moment's deliberation, the disturbing thought was immediately disregarded, cast aside by her need to remain questionable of the man who had most certainly allowed Smee to bring her up on deck. Nothing happened on this ship without Hook's say, as it was this understanding that made her wonder why he would show a fleck of kindness after everything she had said to him. And so deep in these puzzling thoughts was she, that she scarcely heard Smee's question.

"Forgive me, but what did you say, Mr. Smee?" she asked, blushing in embarrassment at her inattention.

Smee shook his head, smiling. "I was tellin' the lads 'ere that ye've a way with spinnin' stories out of that lovely mind of yers. I, along wit' the rest of the crew, was wonderin' if ye'd be as kind an' tell us one of yer tales. It's been so long since ye were 'ere that I've forgotten most of the ones ye told. Please, Miss Wendy." His grey eyes entreated hers. "We will only trouble ye wit' one, won't we, lads?" A heady and excited cheer rang out from the mainmast, all in fervent agreement.

Wendy paled considerably under their unified declaration, feeling a sudden sensation of nausea overcome her. They had asked of her the one thing she could not give them, the stories that she told with such pleasure were now horrid reminders of her life before the war. As they were also the one thing that would always give her pain. She closed her eyes, barring their eager faces. She would have to deny them, no matter how much it pained her to.

"Gentlemen, I—"

"She would be delighted to," a dark and sultry voice echoed scathingly behind her. She turned, remarkably of her own will, to see the impassive visage of Hook, his dark hair swaying madly against his pale face. He moved closer to her, his hook at ease upon her shoulder. She inwardly stiffened under its metallic touch, and he gave her a mocking grin. "As I recall, you were one for stories, my dear—a _raconteur_ in your own right." His hand fell upon her other shoulder, his mind gently caressing hers, whispering, _And you _will _tell them a story, my beauty. Or you shall otherwise come to understand what it is like to be disappointed by one who refuses you,_ his voice silently uttered, a dark and ominous threat lingering behind it.

Unwillingly Wendy bent to his will, surrendering herself before these men whose expectant faces harboured only relief, and not of the potential danger she could so easily place them in. Hook's intimidation of lessening his crew in number had not been an idle threat. No, it was a promise, an obscured vow made to force her into submission. And she would, unable to defy him when others were drawn in peril.

Thus acknowledged, she admitted that he had her in his power at last. And just as tragically, she would concede to his _every_ desire, no matter how much it cost her…

"Gentlemen," the captive bride's voice rose above the lively chatter, silencing them with that one essential word. All eyes fell upon her, their matched stares expectant, waiting. Wendy allowed herself a modest blush before uttering, "I must apologise for my surprise in storytelling; you have clearly caught me off guard. But I must confess that I have nothing new to tell." She paused significantly, and then continued. "Thus, I fear that I must tell one, not from my own stories, but a legend that is certainly one of my favourites, as I hope that _everyone_ will enjoy it as much as I."

The glory of the falling sun fell against her ivory face, tinting it in a pale shade of crimson. She held all of their captive gazes, secretly withholding a smile with her innate beauty. If her captor wanted her to tell a story, then she would tell one. She would make him see that seeking revenge in such a dire and obstinate manner would not be accepted—not by this cruel method of his.

"And so, gentlemen," Wendy began without another thought, "I shall tell you a story where two people—who were so much in love with one another—could never be separated, not even by the unyielding hand of death. They risked everything, if only to remain together—even daring the gods' anger by defying all for the sake of their love. These lovers, passionate as they were in life, are none other than Orpheus and Eurydice…"

The crew of James Hook—who now most certainly went by another name as captain—gathered round their newly deemed storyteller, their attention rapt by the grace and diligence of her soft-spoken words. Wendy watched their avid expressions, most of which mirroring awe and intrigue. Only with the exception of Joshua Crane, who turned away in apparent disapproval of the story chosen, all else listened. Even the assiduous Smee gave an ear. Hook, she did not see, nor did she care if he approved of her choice of story or not, as this tragic myth was mainly directed at him and no other.

She continued the tale, lacing it with a sublime beauty found in all stories that possess a great and tragic love crafted within them. The story itself brought all to silence, her careful and most meaningful account reflecting that of a master storyteller of old. She spoke fondly of a musician—a son of Apollo's greatest and most prized of muses—who could calm ever-raging storms into passing showers and rock the very oceans to sleep with his music. His music, which could make rain fall and crops grow, his music that had even once enchanted a tree nymph out of her wooden slumber.

Thus Wendy, who captivated all with her skilled tenacity in the voiced word, spoke of love, of happiness, of marriage, and of pain.

"The death of Eurydice struck Orpheus a mortal blow, as a part of him died when the snakebite's poison consumed her, and thus stopping the very thing that he loved most about his wife: her heart. And so, he suffered, endlessly; feeling the dull ache of loss enter his own heart. For without his Eurydice, he felt nothing. No music to console those who felt loss themselves, nor the beauty of life plucked from the stings of his magical lyre. In this, Orpheus even lost his will to play that which he loved second to his beloved."

Wendy vaguely smiled, despite the apparent gloom of the story. "And yet, as all seemed utterly hopeless, he found a way to bring his beloved Eurydice out of the shadow of death. He defied all in this, challenging the gods over their apparent mockery in making him suffer. He dared traverse down the uneven walkway that led to Hades, past the River Styx, and into the foreboding depths of the underworld itself.

"It is said, that Orpheus saw many a horrific sight, as terrors beyond all imagination loom within this nightmarish realm. The wraiths of those long since passed from the world above are believed to engulf the River Lethe, a river where all who drink of it forget. Monsters of every shape and form dwell in the darkest of shadows, the three-headed dog, Cerberus, the greatest of them all. But notwithstanding these amazingly, yet macabre, sights did Orpheus go before the Lord of the Dead himself and plead for his wife's release.

"He begged, on bended knee, to the grim and formless Hades. However, such a lord who was cold and just in his judgments among the dead remained forbiddingly silent, unmoved by the muse's son's plight. For you must understand, that Hades cares little for the affairs of others beyond his court, only his captive bride, Persephone, has that one, still-feeling place in his otherwise granite heart. And it was to she, the beautiful goddess of the springtime, whom Orpheus pleaded.

"He played sweet songs of the spring and summertime. His music spoke of flowers bursting into full bloom, of rainstorms, of life; but most of all, of love. And so moved was the undead queen with his music that she turned to her husband and begged for Eurydice's release. Tears fell from her childlike emerald eyes like the summer rain as she implored a dark and impenetrable Hades. Her lovely face, exempt blemish and flaw, contorted into a mask of sorrow as her lord remained silent, unmoved. So was the eternal plight of Persephone, for she, too, understood Orpheus' sadness, as she had been taken away from her dear mother many ages before.

"And as Hades came to recall this same face of an achingly familiar anguish beset his consort, he released Eurydice from his custody. He set her soul free without question—but with a warning to Orpheus: the Thracian king could return his wife to the living world, but he would always have to walk in front of her and never look behind. For should he ever turn to face her, he would lose her forever…"

The storyteller gave slight pause before she drew the story to its dramatic climax—where Orpheus, ever-doubtful of his wife's following, turns to see that through all of his adversity and hardship in retrieving his love from the cold hand of death, only to lose her by his own lack of faith at the end—made everyone gasp in utter shock, their pale and grisly faces reflecting a shard of the pain that the demigod musician felt when his nymphian love was lost forever. Wendy, however, did not hear their stifled cries of objection, as she concluded her affecting tragedy.

"For you see, it is our hearts that move us beyond our fears, to the depths of Hell itself for something that we can barely begin to grasp, only to betray us at the end," she murmured reverently, then chanced a glance at an expressionless Hook, whose cold stare made her slightly stutter. "W-we perceive that we hold what it most dear to us in the palm of our hand, our fingers clasping tightly round that most yearned for and desired of objects. We think it safe, pure from a world of corruption and death." Her voice lowered, and her eyes darkened like black diamonds of the twilight. "But as we open that which we seek to protect, we find that it has already gone, lost forever by the wear of time, and we mere mortals powerless to stop it."

Wendy, relating the full extent of these poignantly heart-rending words, drew in a faltering breath. She held silence over all; however, blinded to the ever-gaping crew's muted protest, she sighed. Her eyes fell closed as she felt the gravity of her words overcome her, the agonising feel of the story itself compelling her to continue.

"But even as tragic as Orpheus found in his loss of his beloved Eurydice and his own demise by the hands of those who ended his grief, he continued on, despite his dismembered excrements being cast to the sea. His head had inexorably fused with his lyre, that wondrous instrument which echoed his music through his own godlike voice. He became an oracle, his severed head speaking prophecies and whispering beliefs of hope for all mankind. For love, you see, is the greatest of all universal elements. It transcends us, torments us with its beautiful, spellbinding presence. And as we come to face our own, inevitable end, we see that such is even stronger than death—for nothing is more powerful than that most profound and significant of all emotions."

Her eyes opened and she looked upon the crew, noticing their grief-stricken faces for the first time. Their bitter silence marked her with the sheer and utter surprise that she had gone a little too far with her petty vengeance. For she did not see appreciation, but something more akin to a grief she could never know. They looked upon her, as one would take his last breath, stricken by the mortal wounds of sadness and despair. Some appeared confused, others baffled by the tragedy, while many talked amongst themselves in grave tones that she could not hear.

Their bout of solemnity lasted only a moment more before one was bold to break it.

The grimfaced visage of Captain James Hook regarded his crew quietly before placing a possessive hand upon the object of his men's pain, and thus lifting the storyteller to her feet. Wendy did not look at her captor as he pulled her against him, his officious hand bruising her arm.

"Gentlemen," Hook acknowledged with an air of ominous pleasantry that made even Smee shudder, "if you will excuse Miss Darling, I believe she must retire for the night. Smee will dispense a ration of my best rum to you. I ask that you enjoy yourselves for the rest of the evening." He nodded to them, saying no more as he led his captive bride to her cabin, his hook pressing dangerously against her side, its jagged edge promising that the night was far, far from over.

…

**Author's Note: I must apologise for taking so long with this chapter. I fear that I have very been busy as of late. With university and family affairs, I have thus been too heavily engaged in a thing deemed life. Anyway, here is the next instalment, as I must further apologise for any grammatical errors; I am simply too weary and too anxious to have this posted to look over it again.**

**Anyway, I must first comment on the myth of _Orpheus and Eurydice_. As much as I adore works of ancient times—as I allude to them often enough—I was heavily inspired by Jim Henson's _The Storyteller: Greek Myths_ and its interpretation of the tragic love story. I honestly find the love between Orpheus and Eurydice more affecting and heart-wrenchingly profound than Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_. Fault me, but Romeo did not go to such lengths as Orpheus did for his beloved, only to lose her eternally. _That_ is the tragedy and the thing that compels us to remember this myth, as it heralds such a sublime concept as love. But now I am waxing poetic, aren't I?**

**I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter, as I must address something to those of you reading my other story, _The Mask's Lament_—which I am pleased beyond measure to see that many of you are reading this story, as well!—I _will_ have that story finished. I actually have most of the next chapter written. However, I am uncertain as to when I will post it. The truth is, I needed a short reprieve from it, since I have been working on it for a little over three years. I suppose I needed a little time away from it, as I am having a wonderful time writing this story. I must confess that, despite my reluctance to begin a new story, Hook would not allow me to ignore him, his subtle demanding me to, 'Tell my story!' has sadly engaged me otherwise. But I _will_ finish _The Mask's Lament_. I promise.**

**And, Valdhery, thanks again! I will most certainly have an onslaught of delicious French dialogue from by our dear marquis and an enigmatic Hook! As you are right: the captain shows a strength unseen in both the film and novel, yet is conflicted by a vulnerability, more subtle in its intent to reveal the mysteries that Hook will most assuredly keep until the conclusion of this tale. Indeed, the man had many, many secrets that Wendy, as with the rest of us, will come to discover by the end!**

**And once again, I wish to express my gratitude for all of you who have read, reviewed, and have added this story to your favourites! Truly, it means a lot to me! Thanks again!**


	7. Chapter Six: And She, the Pirate's Prize

Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners.

Promise of the Last Kiss

Chapter Six

The deadly curved edge of a tarnished hook drove deeper into the captive bride's side as she was led down below, to the forbidding depths of her prison chamber once more. Silent whispers, emitted by an overly tenacious and superstitiously drawn crew, echoed like the grave death tolls of a funerary march. For such was the transient, darkly divine advent of Hook's consummate rage—though remaining soundly unspoken—where all aboard felt the impending need for a drink.

The fall of an unforeseen darkness thus enshrouded the phantom ghost ship with an eerie, ethereal glow, its ominously verdant aura singularly bewitching spirits of the dead with its comely lure. Cries of an ever-anxious western wind—its breathy voice certainly aping that of a forlorn siren denied her Ithacan prize—heralded a shrill cry that made derisive harpies willingly cede to its mournful intent. Even the sea was drawn into utter turmoil, its restless waves striking madly against the heart of its pain—that grimly intertwined figure solely deemed the _Jolly Roger_—as its fury was sated by rocking the ship with its raging torrent.

For such was the ire of the elements, their unease inspired by one who held dominion over them, empowering them with the godlike indignation inspired at a moment's dire whim. And enraged they were, as it was these omens of grave misfortune that the ghostlike crew held their silence, where none dared to raise question over the precedence of their captain's intentions with their newfound mistress.

Her fate, whatever it was, was of little concern, since most of their minds were already beginning to dull by the rum their bo'sun shamefully dispensed. And so absorbed were they in their personal miseries, did not even take note of how their captain's eyes gleamed golden, a slight shade of red at the rim…

For even Wendy, pained as she was in her own self-longings, remained perilously unaware of the danger that lay—deeply enlaced—within her captor's eyes. Her quavering heart echoed that silent dread already as she felt herself stagger, almost fall in his ominous wake. She scarcely recovered herself before being drawn past the cabin's threshold and into the childish, nightmare shadows that still terrified her in adulthood. Reluctantly she looked at the dark figure that was her greatest adversary, his one and only agile hand closing the door behind him and thus locking them within.

He said nothing to her, however, cold eyes of the forget-me-not only considering her trembling figure in silence. Yet, reserved as he was in his unspoken censure, his disquieting gaze never left her until he vacated the cabin's threshold and moved to the elaborate chest of drawers on the other side of the room. His strange behaviour began to unnerve Wendy, as she watched his formless shape rifle through the unknown contents of an obscure drawer. She shuddered in the darkness, feeling his rage seethe within his otherwise calm exterior as he searched.

He muttered a long string of poetic curses in a beautiful foreign tongue—Parisian French, no doubt—for the language seemed oddly familiar, even if she barely discerned a word of it. Yet through this long, demeaning interim, she finally saw the reason for his search as he struck a match, its fragile flame the only light within the fathomless, dusky expanse. Within moments, the cabin was engulfed in a plethora of light. Wendy watched, mystified by the sudden onslaught of fire and flame. A slight gasp of wonder escaped her, wholly awed by this unexpected vision, as no flame could ignite on its own, unless some form of magic were involved.

She considered this, briefly, before realising that her captor's eyes were closed, his face a mask of serenity. And for a moment she stared at him, perplexed by his arrantly tranquil countenance.

_Was it he who…impossible. _

A man like Captain James Hook could never conjure the elemental properties of fire. He was human, without such said abilities. He could not fly, nor dwell on anything but the niggling anticipation spurred by a petty revenge against a careless child. She shook her head at this. Hook was nothing more than an embittered man, crippled by his own folly, and therefore too pedestrian to be anything but. For certain it was that he could never match Peter, tragically flawed anti-hero that he was, as he could never be anything but the dark and sinister villain she had always painted him as. And no maid's clever parlour trick would make her believe otherwise.

Hook groaned unnaturally under her silent deliberation. "Wendy," he murmured quietly, hazy blue eyes meeting hers. They calmed significantly under the candlelight, the golden flecks within the pale irises a wondrous shade of amber; as a touch of crimson, though still faintly lingering within each hollow rim, held no threat in harming her. Indeed, the man with his ever-changing eyes could not bring himself to commit further injury—not then, as he could only stare out into the harrowing depths of oblivion with only his silent dejection and bitter longing as company.

It had been a mistake to force her, he realised. But one he did not regret, for she had wounded him deeply, her cutting words like fine arrows piercing his vulnerable chest. He had barely begun to desist from the notion of imprisoning her for the infraction of rejecting him so. Yet her ingratitude left him no other choice but to force a touch of shame upon her. Only then would she see her error in defying him with her wayward tongue, as only then would she begin to understand his reasons—for everything.

Her defiance, also, posed another dilemma: she had ultimately humiliated him in front of his crew. With her choice of story, she managed to purge the entire ship into utter chaos, the image of the grim and mordantly drawn faces of his men still so prominent—and would ever be—in his mind, even with the large portion of rum he had the witless Smee bestow. Wendy had challenged him, and it was this audacity that he had to quell before the crew began to question his authority. He could not afford the chance of another mutiny…

Nevertheless, he would know of her purpose in choosing such a heartrending tale, which he had yet to upbraid her for. In this, he drew himself to an imposing height, the flickering light casting a sickly orange glow against his ornate emerald coat. "I believe you should explain yourself, Miss Darling," he began austerely. "Your behaviour this evening was most unacceptable."

Wendy looked away from his condescending glare, ashamed. And yet, her dulcet voice, though quavering with tumultuous fear, rang out against his severity and coldness.

"Should I?" she dourly posed. "You _know_ that I that I did not wish tell a story," she muttered like a petulant child robbed of its happiness. "I told you that I no longer cared for them. That desire has long since left me; and will not return, as I have not the will to concoct some wild fancy, based merely on a child's wistful dream." She sighed, dismayed by his demand of her. "I only matched your revenge, as a means to…"

"Hurt me," Hook gravely finished for her. "And yet, you failed in your attempt, as your retaliation offended my crew instead." He regarded her coldly. "You not only tried to dishonour me, but you troubled those men with your story; something, I am sure, you did not intend."

The captive bride closed her eyes in unspoken guilt. "I never wanted to upset them. I…did not realise that it would affect them so. I only thought—"

"You did not think," he callously interjected. "Not once did you consider what cruelty you would inspire by your selfishness. You only desired to shame me for obliging you to do something that went beyond your will." His voice darkened, and his eyes reflected a hellish shade of blue. "I begin to wonder if you care for anyone, other than yourself, Miss Darling. For your actions this evening reflect quite the opposite."

He glowered at her wilting form, unimpressed by her lack of defence. But as he watched her willingly cede to him, his resolve softened and his hand fell against her face. "But there is a reason as to why you abhor telling stories, where you once loved to recount them to your brothers and those noisome little Lost Boys," he added with a hint of joviality. "I recall that you would even regale me with one from time to time. It was your ambition to become—what was it—a novelist? Your family forbade it, of course. But it was what you wanted, what you desired most," he whispered in her ear, his hardened gaze reflecting a trace of compassion. "What darkness hindered your dreams, Wendy? Tell me, and I promise I will not read your thoughts."

Wendy only sighed as the fleeting feel of his maddening caress compelled her to give in, yield to his unspoken command. She almost trembled underneath his enrapturing touch, but refrained from submitting completely.

"I…cannot." Her words came out in a gentle, yet defiant, whisper.

"Why?" he pressed, undeterred by her unwillingness. "Why can you not, Wendy? Do you not entrust me to hold your secret safe? Even as you now look upon my face and see a man you fear, I am still the one you confided in, trusted to harbour your deepest secrets. You believed in me then," he said emphatically. "Will you not trust in me now?"

"But you lied to me," she objected in a tremulous voice. Her head lifted, the remnants of dried tears staining her lovely face. "You never told me who you were. For all of those years we spoke, you never once revealed your identity, only led me to believe that you were someone who was there for me, someone who cared. Your concern seemed so genuine, that I believed it without question." She sighed, dismayed by this grand illusion of lies. "I trusted you more than my own mother, believing that you would stay with me, no matter the consequence. You even remained by my side after…everything. And yet, it was all a lie."

Hook looked down at her, his comforting hand falling away from her face. "It was _never_ a lie," he returned impassively. "You never asked _who_ your beloved comforter was, and I did not feel inclined to tell you the truth. You chose to believe that I was nothing more than a voice without a form. It was your fantasy, Wendy, not mine. And I will not be held to blame for your negligence in discovering the truth." He allowed a thoughtful pause to pass between them before continuing. "Had you asked it of me, I would not have withheld anything from you. I would have been honest, despite what you think of me."

But Wendy knew not what to think of him; as even when she deliberated upon this alleged certainty did she dare cast her gaze upon him, finding that his eyes, while unnerving to look into, held a measure of truth that could not be denied. She felt moved by his sincerity, aptly noticing the fervent resolve in his declaration. He _was_ the man behind the voice, and his words—though she wished it otherwise—carried that conviction.

With this unwanted truth, she nodded, albeit half-heartedly, yet finding her own voice and the courage to speak: "In all honesty, I do not know what to think of you. As a child, I knew the legends, read tales of a notorious, bloodthirsty captain whose eyes would turn red whenever he gutted someone. I was terrified of you, knowing that such a man would undoubtedly be heartless, and would surely never consider having any mercy upon an innocent child. Your tying me to the mainmast and threatening to force my brothers and the Lost Boys over the plank proved as much." She hesitated for a moment, but then added, "And yet, as I now consider it, you never once harmed me or my family—not after what we did to you that evening on the ship. You never threatened me, but came whenever I needed you." Her dark brows pursed together, thus revealing an unknown, hidden sentiment of admiration. "You did not have to do that."

Her captor closed his eyes for a moment, that dark and impenetrable mind believing, almost daring to hope. He opened his eyes, and then stared into hers once more. "I know," he acquiesced, "but you wanted me with you, nonetheless. And I could not deny you that, even when I knew how much it was that you despised me. I may be nothing more than a depraved villain to you, but I am not fully without heart, Wendy." His hand sought the familiar contours of her face, the cold, leathery digits resting against it. _I would rather cut off my other hand, than to allow any harm come to you,_ his captivating voice echoed.

Wendy slightly blushed, hearing his silent vow in protecting her. She looked at him, feeling the gentle assurance behind his words. He _wanted_ her to trust him, give him the chance that no other dared bestow. In this, she could almost swear that she saw a trace of hope in his fathomless expression. His calming presence, along with his softly spoken compassion, made her almost believe him, for he seemed so desperate to have her confide in him, trust him as she had the voice. _And perhaps_, Wendy bravely thought, _I_ _have been wrong about him all along._

"I want to trust you," she implored quietly, carefully placing an assuring hand upon his arm. She felt him flinch under that delicate touch, but otherwise remain composed as he stood before her. Wendy inwardly smiled at this, thus proceeding. "I want to believe you. And I know that, if what you say is true, then I have nothing to fear from you." She cast a cautious glance at her wrinkled wedding gown. "And perhaps I can try to understand why you brought me here, under your protection."

"You already know why," he responded enigmatically, his gaze now downcast.

She looked at him, dark eyes questioning his soulful placation. "Do I?" she infinitely posed, her hand remaining steadfastly upon his arm. "Do I truly know your reasons, captain? Until yesterday, I had only believed you to be nothing more than an amorphous comforter. And now, I find myself standing before, not only a voice, but a man of flesh and blood; a man that many fear. It is quite remarkable in a way. I even doubt that my own brothers would believe that their sister could hold a decent conversation with the man who inspired their childhood nightmares." She moved closer to him, her voice only a whisper. "But I _do_ want to trust you. And all that I ask is that you not enquire about my reason for not telling stories. It is something that I…cannot explain."

The captain's blue eyes shifted, revealing a concern, most unexpected. "Very well, Miss Darling," he conceded after a long, silent moment. "I will not invade your privacy in this matter. But I shall wait, as you will one day tell me without fear." And out of a show of ultimate trust his hand covered hers, clasping it firmly. "I will wait until then, my beauty."

As he said this, his other arm moved of its own volition, the razor-sharp hook at the small of her back. His head inclined a fraction of an inch, wild dark tresses—which looked achingly like that of melting-black candlesticks—eclipsing the sides of her face. Wendy could only watch, helpless as she was in his suffocating embrace. His hair had grown longer in her time away, she noticed. It was darker, more lustrous than she remembered it to be. Even the few strands of crimson added to the fascination of that impenetrable mane.

Quietly she observed him and his arcane movements, becoming starkly aware of the many facets of unparalleled wonder that became him. He was fair, true; but far darker than his ghostly crew. Even Smee's ruddy complexion could never match that of his master's; as the captain was, in a sense, alone in his own class, for he held the air of one from the highest crust in the aristocracy. His deadly nature, combined with his taste for the good form, made him even more compelling, most alluring in his art to entrance one by a passing glance. This man was beautiful, she realised. It was strange that she had never taken note of that before.

For just as she gazed into his eyes, she saw a lingering sadness there. Like a man who had lost everything, only to find the faintest hope in something so small and insignificant as the simple desire of one trusting in him. And she wanted to, even as she felt his lips—those cold, maladjusted lips—lightly graze against her forehead. She could have died then, feeling her dreaded nemesis of old bestow a most pure and chaste kiss upon her unadorned brow.

"Wendy," he whispered softly, the blunt side of his hook gently caressing her back. He held her gaze for a moment longer—a sentiment akin to a childlike adulation found within those placid pools of forget-me-not—before closing his eyes, his mind calling out to another. He remained this way, if only for the fleeting instance of a second, until his strange-coloured eyes found hers once more. His hand traced the smooth curve of an unblemished cheek, his fingers moving deftly against the delicate planes of her ivory face, memorising it solely by his inimitable sense of touch.

_You are so beautiful_, he murmured into her thoughts, and watched her flush madly under his appreciative gaze. A ghost of a smile besieged his lips. She was indeed lovely—especially so, when she tilted her head shyly to the side, her genteel modesty becoming of one so darkly enchanting. It was a tragedy that no other could see the true rarity that was Wendy Darling. With her shadowy countenance—most certainly that of an unorthodox quality, where much of the female gender were powdered pale and sylphlike in their feminine makeup—_she_ opposed the willowy, blonde, waiflike fashions prized among London society, at least with the courtly intrigues of his time.

In truth, she hailed from the darker regions of the motherland, her pagan ancestry pervading her Roman lines, weakening them with an inferior blood. And yet, her skin…was that of a white rose, pure of all corruption, and tinged with a hint of valerian-cerise. He had been captivated by her at first sight, his black beauty, so long ago when he watched her dance with a guileless Pan by moon and faerie-light. By all accounts, his far-reaching gaze had observed their floating figures with unmarked jealousy, his inner loneliness panging his beating black heart as he painfully watched them from afar.

But she was his now, he reminded himself—as she would ever be. And no child, who was certainly foolish enough to forget her, could ever take her from him.

So it was that Pan had lost her—indefinitely—as Hook refused to let her go. Indeed, the boy had subsequently lost to his ill-forgotten nemesis, never to have his precious Wendy to tell him stories ever again. She would not be his mother, either. As no child, whose timeless existence expelled that which every fragile mortal believed in—a life beyond this one—could ever dare trust that he could have everything. For there was one thing that most children had that the eternal one could never: a family. And it was this brilliant masterstroke, if only to that of the naïve observer, that was Hook's greatest triumph; the fair Wendy now his for the taking. Such was his victory—though in part a partial one—that led him to this moment, as all he need now was to somehow make her see, understand why he took her so; and perhaps, in time, come to—

A timid knock at the door adjourned his thoughts as he heard his most loyal bo'sun's voice fearfully breach the wooden door. "Sir, 'tis me."

"Do come in, Mr. Smee," Hook congenially acknowledged as the elder seaman allowed himself in. The bo'sun gave a kind, half-smile to Wendy before his spectacled gaze found Hook, his head falling in deference when he noticed the intimate exchange between his lady and master.

"Fergive me, sir. I would've come sooner, but…"—He revealed what looked to be a small chain used for shackling prisoners in his hand—"I couldn't find one any smaller than this."

"Quite all right," the captain quietly assured him, allowing a slight touch of compassion echo within his deep, resounding voice. He ushered the blundering boatswain to a chair and urged him to sit. When he did, Hook smiled. "Miss Darling and I have been expecting you."

Smee grinned, despite his apparent confusion. "That be mighty thoughtful of ye, sir. Ye, too, miss," he addressed a gravely silent Wendy with his best pirate's etiquette. "An' I must say that yer story tonight was as grand as I ever did hear one. A wee bit sad, but a good yarn, nevertheless. 'Twas even better than Iseult's tale. Ye 'ad the whole crew almost in tears, ye did. Never seen the lads in more need fer a drink." He looked toward his captain apologetically. "I fear that o'er 'alf o' them won't be able ta greet the sun tamorrow, much less tend their duties."

Hook only gave a dismissive nod.

"I shall take o'er Laird Vane's duty until eight glasses, then," the Irishman concluded, feeling it his obligation to take over from a foxed crew of lost souls. He pulled himself away from the chair, giving Wendy a fond smile before moving to take his leave. "I best be gettin' ta the deck afore Vane decides ta steer us inta a storm."

"I wouldna be saying that now, Mr. Smee," Alasdair Vane said upon entering, his lordly appearance looking haggard, dishevelled by his inebriated state. He glanced at the flustering bo'sun, then to Hook. "I do beg pardon, captain, but I need tae speak wit' ye on a matter most urgent," he urged, and then lightened upon seeing his captain's consent. He shook his head, dark auburn strands of hair cascading madly against his ashen face. He hesitated a moment, but finally confessed, "I am sorry tae interrupt, but they be at it in the storage again." He sighed, clearly vexed. "And poor Gilles refuses tae go in there, since he almost lost his head the last time."

"And we know how sensitive the marquis is about his head," Hook returned dispassionately, his complacent nature now irritated. He finally nodded after a ponderous moment, his peripheral gaze never leaving Wendy, as his attention remained upon his quartermaster. "Very well, Lord Vane, I shall see to their mutiny, personally."

The quartermaster almost grinned, clearly relieved. "Thank ye, sir. Poor Gilles is still most likely fightin' 'em off wit' that broom o' his, which they broke in half. And most o' the others are on deck, awaitin' yer orders."

The captain frowned. "I thought I had given them the rest of the evening." His stance straightened and his face drew into a stern mask of suspicion. "Why are they on deck, Lord Vane?"

A cloud of hesitation drew over the Scotsman's noble visage. He closed his eyes, revealing his discomfort, but nevertheless answered his superior. "Crane noticed that we are also steerin' closer tae the isle than first believed. Somethin' is pullin' us there." His eyes opened when he heard his captain curse in a language never before heard by the ear of man.

"Have everyone tend to their assigned duties; I can care less for their drunken states. As for you, command the wheel and give it hard over. Do not fail me in this, my lord; or there will surely be consequences. I will be there to assist you directly," he crudely dismissed the reticent lord, and then addressed his bo'sun. "Mr. Smee, a word," he ordered, drawing the older man over in private.

He whispered something, too light and inaudible for Wendy to hear. She watched their exchange curiously, regrettably noticing Hook's succinct consideration as he glanced up at her. She knew that he was speaking of her, and then was assured of that certainty by the quelling look that crossed the boatswain's ragged features. The Irishman gave her an unconvincing smile as his master turned and left the room, the iron chain still in his weathered hand.

"Mr. Smee," Wendy quietly acknowledged, standing amid the disquieting darkness. "What—"

"Oh, Miss Wendy, 'twill be a'right, ye'll see," Smee began, almost too reassuringly. He moved to her side, cautiously, and then urged her to sit. "That devil-spawn Pan be pullin' us ta the isle, miss. The master is doin' everythin' he can ta prevent that demon from takin' ye away from us agin." He grimaced at this ill-spoken truth. "An'…"—He gestured to the shackling chain, albeit nervously—"Don't ye see, 'tis the only way ta ensure yer safety."

A sharp gasp of disbelief escaped her when she realised his intent. This was a _not_ a means to protect her, but to punish her sedition against the captain; for the chain was already in Smee's possession, even before the quartermaster relayed his dire news. Hook wanted to imprison her, not protect her; he could never be so noble. She forced her eyes shut and suppressed the need to cry, setting aside the hurtful thought of her wanting to actually place trust in him, only to have him betray her once again…

Smee sadly remained oblivious to Wendy's outcry, though, his gnarled seaman's hand ready to interlock her left ankle—for that was the appendage that his master had specifically told him to shackle—with the iron cuff. He sighed with a mark of esteemed diffidence, feeling a slight pang of regret to chain this inspiring young lady like a common prisoner. He ignored this, however, locking the adjacent manacle to the bedpost. He looked at Wendy, sorrowfully, iron chain in hand. But before he could carry out his errant deed, the door to the cabin opened, revealing another in its darkened threshold.

"Mr. Smee," a voice called, its strange accent barely heard through the resounding chaos above.

The spectacled man turned a sharp gaze towards his unseen addresser. "Show yerself at once, afore I introduce ye ta Johnny Corkscrew," he demanded, a strong Gaelic brogue coming through his rigid tone.

Without a moment's hesitation, the one in question did as asked, stepping forward and into the cabin's poor light. "Now you may see that I pose no threat," the ship's watchman, known primarily as Grey Lovel, replied as he entreated the stern Irishman. "Indeed, I have only come to relay a message that you must come to the main deck at once."  
"What be the trouble, lad?" Smee asked, feeling uneasy all at once.

The watchman's pale complexion darkened and his eyes gleamed with black fire as his answer brought pain to the boatswain and hope to Wendy: "They know."

Smee uttered a curse that was only known to those fluent in the Irish faerie tongue. "An' 'ow many of those sea witches are there? Did they relay any…"

"The captain stopped them before they could," Grey answered for him, and gravely added, "but we are still pulling towards the isle. He needs you on deck."

With a stab of reluctance, Smee conceded, looking to Wendy in regret. "'Tis sorry I am ta leave ye now, miss. But ye shall be a'right; the master'll manage ta steer the ship far from that devil-child Pan." He turned to the watchman and bade him stand by the threshold as he made to leave the cabin. He whispered something to the younger man; the latter's coal-black eyes clouding over in obvious confusion. Grey looked at Wendy, and then returned his attention to Smee.

"Against my better judgment, it shall be done," he granted, assuring the bo'sun that the captain's instructions would be carried out, despite his disinclination to. He dimly noticed Smee's reserved acquiescence before departing to see his awaiting master. Grey closed the door after the befuddled seaman, his attention then turning to Wendy. He gave her an amiable smile, moving to where she stood.

"I ask that you forgive my bedraggled state, Miss Darling. It seems that tonight has been most uneventful for many of us." He slightly grinned, his dark eyes teasing. "But perhaps my crewmates and I have taken our idleness aboard for granted. No storm in days, plenty of wind in our sails; everything could not be more perfect for a ship and its crew. Even Mr. Smee and the captain have been gracious in their commands of late. Especially since the captain made mention of you staying here with him," he added meaningfully.

Wendy blanched at his meaning. "The captain and I have known each other for years," she explained, not wholly a lie. "He wanted to see me, is all."

Grey chortled at this, a merry trill. "Indeed, miss," he humoured her, not believing a word she said, but being courteous enough not to admit it. "But whatever my captain's reasons, I am glad he did. You are truly everything I imagined you would be."

"What do you mean, sir?" she enquired, her dark brows pursing together in drawn suspicion.

The watchman shook his head. "It is just what I mean: you are beautiful, kind to our ragged lot, and a superb storyteller. I never realised that you were also well-versed in Greek tragedies, Miss Darling. Indeed, you have certainly left quite an impression on the crew, if you don't mind my saying so."

_I do mind,_ she wanted to say, but held her daring tongue. Instead she asked, "And what brings a man like you to the captain's crew? I never thought that he would hire on any new hands," she broached, her expressive face pensive, thoughtful. "Why did he, anyway?"

Grey frowned at her. "You mean you do not know about what happened to his other crew?" he questioned, his pallid skin gleaming white in the dim candlelight. When he noticed her silent disavowal, he felt compelled to answer: "They died amidst some bloody skirmish on this very ship. The captain himself was believed to have been counted among those lost, but his body never washed ashore like the others. Only our good Mr. Smee and another—his name has eluded me for the nonce—survived. It was not until later that the captain came upon Smee and decided to regain his ship."

"And how did he?" Wendy could not help but ask.

The watchman gave her an indolent grin. "How else is a famed captain to recover his ship, other than by the aid of a new crew? But alas, my lady, we did not join until _after_ he recovered this grand vessel—all on his own, I might add. Apparently, even Smee watched as the captain stormed the ship, only to find it empty and completely abandoned by the one who sought to steal it. The captain and Smee then, without word or question, came to our isle and requested for anyone who wanted to enlist on his ship. And many of us did just that," he finished, a light note within his richly-toned voice.

"So you are here of your own free will?" she posed curiously.

"Of course we are." He chuckled at her naïveté. "Did you think the captain forced us into service? His offer of our joining was a godsend to us, I assure you." His vibrant expression dimmed somewhat, and his smile lessened under Wendy's questioning gaze. "Without our captain and this ship, we would not have a purpose, miss. And even though the work is hard to manage at times, I doubt that any of us regret joining, just as I mustn't regret his decision in bringing you here. You give us something to look forward to, miss. With your kindness and understanding, you give us a reason to smile when another day approaches."

He placed an encouraging hand over hers. "And just as I must admit that I enjoy your company even more than my duty, I must leave you now," he said as he moved to fulfil the one task he did not wish to complete. "Forgive me, miss, but it is the captain's orders."

The captive bride only nodded as she watched him place the iron shackle around her right leg. She did not even attempt to correct him in his mistake; for fear that he would ask questions, questions in which she could not answer. If the crew only knew of her infirmity and the captain's true purpose in keeping her here…

But she would hold her silence, as so many lives hung within the balance with every word she spoke into existence. She could not be the cause of their unmerited deaths, should she speak ill of their beloved commander. And regrettably, she knew that Hook would keep his word if she ever betrayed him. For when it came to holding control over his ship, the fabricated illusion of his chivalrous demeanour and soft-spoken promises were promptly disregarded when he had no further need to beguile one in trusting him.

She had been a fool to believe that he could change and become something more than the man she had grown to fear—someone who could avert every wretched thought and painful memory of her past, someone she could confide in, trust in.

Someone she could almost come to care for…

Her head fell at this mordant reflection, despite her need to remain untroubled in front of a man who seemed to regard her every movement. Almost willingly, she closed her eyes as the last of her condemning faith in her captor fell away when the iron cuff clasped tightly around her scarred ankle, locking the garish manacle firmly into place.

She did not even hear the watchman's concerned farewell as he left her within the safe confines of the cabin, alone, with only her thoughts to keep her company.

…

And so it was for several hours she sat, her passing interest idly fixed on the various foray of glass ornaments and trinkets, followed by the random shouts of an unremitting crew, who never once stifled their melodious cursing and endless scuffle, did nothing to quell the ache that had so inconveniently arisen within her right leg. It had pained her for hours, starting as only a dull ache beginning at the joint of her ankle until it heightened its onslaught of discomfort, and thus spread through the entirety of her injury.

The iron manacle had chafed her poorly attached skin, marking it with the tell-tale signs of a reddened irritation. Dark shades of a relentless pain would soon follow, tainting her ivory flesh with a crude shade of violet, as a verdant tint of green would encircle its majestic discolouring. She would be bruised, plagued by the unending ache spawned by her captivity. She groaned at the absurdity of it, blaming herself for placing trust in one who could be so provocatively malevolent. Even his smile could tempt her to transgress against a little; he was so sinfully charming.

Yet, in a way, Wendy idly reflected, he faintly reminded her of the Black Prince whose charismatic nature could both entice and captivate women as he enthralled them with his come-hither intent. But yet, she recalled that the charming pirate never took a fair maiden against her will, his belief in returning one so innocent and pure of the world to those who loved her without blemish. His reputation, therefore, rose above the mundane notions of a pirate, setting himself on an entirely different plane as those who sought to plunder and make good on their questionable earnings after a day's marauding on some unfortunate merchant ship or slave vessel.

In truth, Wendy could scarcely distinguish any real comparison between Hook and her former interest, other than the wretched fact that it was he, Captain James Hook, whom she had envisioned as the dark royal. And to her eternal shame, she had, for how many times did she imagine his imposing visage become the one whom inspired her stories of noble raiders who sought to defy a corrupt and unjust monarchy? Too many, as only the gallant prince made merchant ships bound for the motherland his prey. And he had victimised many, though the reason for his selective choosing was still unknown to her, as it was to those who studied such an obscure and enigmatic figure.

But even more, was that the Black Prince had been everything she envisioned in a man: powerful, but reserved in his actions; strong, yet fair in his judgments. In truth, _he_ was what she had wanted in a suitor, yet never fully found. For such a man could never exist, not in a world where science overthrew her once naïveté. She groaned in apparent dismay, disgusted by her childish yearnings. The Black Prince was no more than the scant dust inlayed in the box where she kept her toys and childhood mementos. As he would forever be to her, since no man, living or dead, could ever be real.

She then thought of her beloved Henry, a frown besetting her wan features as she considered what agonising torture it was that he presently endured. Their wedding was, most assuredly, ruined by now, as everyone would come to believe that she had cried off from their impending nuptials. Gossip would inevitably spread throughout the _ton_ about an alleged jilting at the altar, while her parents would be forced to dispel any hints of a scandal that would even succumb her _dear_ Aunt Millicent to the vapours.

And it was all because she heeded a voice—that damnably compelling voice with its intoxicating timbre and evocative words—that could make the heavens dance and fall with tears. She had been entranced by it, utterly captivated. And to her regret, she still was; she could never truly exercise the dark entity that was James Hook. She doubted that she could ever, even if she were to somehow manage to escape and find herself back in the secure arms of her fiancé.

Henry.

Even the name made her flinch in shame, for what would he think if he discovered the truth, of his fiancée and the captain who had artlessly abducted her? Dare he imagine if he knew of their past intrigues born in the twilight's gathering dark? But even more, what would he _do_ if he realised how another man's touch could evoke something that his never could? She could still feel those weathered lips graze against her forehead, could very well gather the sensation of a dizzying euphoria surge throughout her. Like imbibing in the gods' ambrosial drink, she felt splendid, utterly divine, as she could not deny that she felt something reminiscent like fear towards Hook, yet not.

There was no means to define what she felt, exactly, just as she could not delimit her feelings for Henry. She sighed discontentedly, mulling over this growing predicament. She could hardly admit that she felt something for her almost-husband, as Henry had, to his credit, a kindness about him that went unsurpassed by many who sought her hand. And even though he could not tend to her as one naturally would his ailing betrothed, he still cared.

At least…she believed it to be so. Yet the captain's scathing remark concerning her fiancé's true intentions made her consider something she dare not. But surely, Hook was lying, as Henry would never defile her in so callous a manner; she would never become his pedestaled prize, his public whore. She bit her lip; the acrid sting of her captor's words promptly reminding her of his ignoble brutality, as it was most potent in his dissuading of her, by compelling her to believe the worst in people.

In Hook's defence, however, something akin to sincerity had resonated within his words, as if he wanted to shield her from some tragic fate. Yet tragic it was in turn that Wendy was unable to perceive his grim forewarning, as the chain bound to her leg imparted a harsh reminder.

"But if he truly cared, then why this? Why imprison me?" she murmured to the chain that held her leg captive—the same adamant chain that remained gravely silent in its dark protest.

A distraught hand fell against its cold, unyielding cuff, trying to assuage the unevenly bruised skin underneath. And Wendy, not without great effort, managed to cradle the aching injury as she sat upon the floor, her slanted figure swaying much like that of the ship set against the coarse waves. She felt the rise and fall of the great vessel from underneath, noticed how its sturdy wooden frame held against such trying adversity and persevering through it all.

She shook her head, idly musing over how the ship reflected the same obstinate qualities as its master. For even battered and broken in a state of war, it still persisted in its need to stay adrift and fight against the wind and watery elements that dared pull it under. And much like the ship, its captain had done the same, albeit his personal battles dealt with other, more trying and daring adversaries that defeated him single-handedly at every cross and turn.

The door to her cabin opened without warning, and Wendy dismissed her present thoughts, lest they be counted among any words she dare utter. She waited; shielding her sight as a dark figure calmly shut the door and approached her. With veiled eyes, her poor state of vision was at a terrible disadvantage when the imposing mass of velvet and satin came forth; taut, dripping, and waterlogged. Captain Hook looked the worse for wear, his once resplendent attire now ruined by the raging swells from without. He looked pitiful, dishevelled; his ebony mane now unkempt, moulding inky black-red tresses against his sun-bronzed face, the gold earring with its fanglike bauble tangled amid the mass.

Wendy reluctantly acknowledged him, cautiously; he looked even worse than what she had first surmised. His coat and inner fittings were saturated with seawater, his boots inundated with it. His hat—for none surely knew of its whereabouts—had been discarded long before his waged battle against the sea, as were the strange blue markings that marred his rugged features and tattered clothing—mermaid's blood, undoubtedly—for she knew well that their blood was unlike those blessed with the gift of walking.

Yet notwithstanding this present discomfort, Wendy remained as she was; seated upon the cold wooden floor. Vaguely she noticed that his drawn look did not affect her in the slightest. It showed a more humane, almost urbane quality about him, as if he seemed genuine in his efforts to keep his ship from discovery. She very nearly commended him for it, but wisely held her tongue as she felt him watch her.

And to her surprise, his eyes spoke volumes, yet were strangely perplexed at the sight of her. "Wendy," he rasped softly, his dark head shifting to the side with a note of curiosity. "Why are you on the floor?" he asked, his words becoming more pronounced and filling with an instinctual concern. "Did you fall? Are you hurt? Tell me, child!" he demanded, falling on his knees before her.

His hand fell against her face, the rough leathery digits searching for any sign of harm. She faintly felt his worry within each placating stroke, the sharp hook edging its own comfort into her side. Wendy sighed in what could be nothing less than sheer delight. Once again, she felt those odd feelings returning. And once again, she almost welcomed them before her hand fell upon his, clasping it in unspoken comfort.

"I am quite all right, captain," she quietly soothed, attempting to rise from her wretched state. "I did not fall, so there is nothing to be concerned over."

A sentiment of what looked like relief crossed his worried features as he rose with her, helping her stand. "Forgive me, I thought…" he began awkwardly, but then composed himself. "When I saw you there, I thought you had fallen." His good hand claimed one of hers and he kissed it. "You had given quite a start, beauty; having me to believe you injured." He shook his head in a teasing manner, though his words were not wholly without a touch of gravity. "But I cannot abide some potential danger caused by my ship, which may, in turn, come to do you harm."

The captive bride looked down shyly, once again at a loss for words. She felt his hook against her throat, moving ever so tentatively across the ivory-white column, then sliding upward to her face. Her eyes widened, but she dared not flinch as the deadly attachment rested against a wan cheek. "Captain, I…" Her voice died, her plaintive words failing her as she felt the sharp edge of the offending implement silence her trembling lips.

Golden-blue eyes countered hers in a soft-spoken manner. "There is no need to explain yourself," he whispered in earnest, "I only wish to protect you."

And as he spoke these heartfelt words, Wendy surrendered all reservations indefinitely, her head falling against his chest. She felt his arms encircle her, binding her within their strengthening hold. She sighed against him; feeling his empowering touch, needing to be closer. Never in a thousand years could she dare admit the relief she felt, the conscious awareness of his calming affection had all but abandoned her. In his arms, she felt secure, safe from a world that wished only to torture her with pity. In his arms, she felt needed, wanted.

_Oh, Wendy, you cannot imagine what it is to have you here_, he murmured thoughtfully; smiling, despite his need to remain grave and austere in her presence. He pulled her at arm's length, his eyes drifting over her standing figure. Noticing her slight show of pain, he bade her to sit on the bed. "I suppose you have learned your lesson in defying me," he quietly affirmed, producing a rusted iron key from his pocket. "Now, let us remove this wretched shackle, shall we?"

But as he bent to remove the cuff from her leg, his serene countenance melted to one of true surprise, and then to one of scorn. He cursed violently, a strange, northern accent spewing forth. "Did Smee do this?" he demanded in a solemn growl, his voice returning to its familiar inflection.

Wendy shook her head, fearful of this fledgling anger. "No, he was called to the main deck before he could," she explained calmly, hoping to somehow placate him.

But alas, her attempts were in vain, for his expression grew darker, more menacing. "Then who did this? I demand you tell me: _who_ was it, Wendy?" he growled, now towering over her. "Which one of my bastard born crew did this? Tell me!"

Not knowing whether to say the name or not, she hesitated in her answer. "Please, captain, you cannot place anyone at blame for this; he knew nothing of your orders." She looked at him, pleading for him to understand. But regrettably, he did not.

"The name," he insisted once more, "I want the damned wretch's name. And by my hook, I shall have it." He glowered at her, searching through the folds of her befuddled mind. His own glaring eyes fell shut, and his mind's eye probed deeper, scaling the outer walls of her conjoining thoughts until it found the knowledge it sought. A ragged breath escaped him as he called out to another. He remained deathly silent through it all, if only for an agonising moment; but then his eyes opened, only to regard Wendy coldly.

Within moments, Smee bustled in through the double doors, his ruddy complexion even more pronounced as he leaned against the threshold, out of breath. "Ye called fer me, master?" he wheezed wretchedly.

Hook remained a statue of unyielding stone. "Have Mr. Lovel come here at once," he replied jadedly, unconcerned by the weary state his bo'sun was in. Wendy only shook her head in disbelief.

"Captain, please," she implored, but only received a quelling look.

"Enough out of you, my _darling_ one," he returned derisively. "You will soon come to know what happens when one does not obey my command."

And not a moment passed after he spoke this condemning verdict that the one called for entered, a nervous Smee following in behind.

Grey looked at Hook, clearly perplexed. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

Hook only nodded. "Aye, I called for you," he muttered elusively, and then moved forward, as if to greet the man. But as he moved to extend his hand—as one would in a cordial, if not affable, greeting—he grasped the watchman by the throat, his fingers twisting dangerously around the fragile pillar of flesh.

Grey drew out a stifled grasp of surprise as he was lifted into the air, the adamant hand of his captain escorting his struggling figure to a now white-faced Wendy. His sight was caught by the trembling girl, as the deadly hook moved forth.

"Do you see this?" his commander asked, the iron claw pointing directly towards Wendy's shackle. "Get a good look at it and tell me why you shackled her on the _wrong_ leg?" he growled, a dark note of disdain within his voice.

The watchman only gaped, unable to speak; and thus in his reluctance, Hook gladly obliged him. "I will tell you why, you insolent fool: you had no concern for obeying my orders; and as a consequence, she has suffered because of your stupidity!" He cast his silent victim to the floor, a pistol now within a resolute hand. "Get up," he ordered harshly, kicking him in the side. "Get up now, you dog, before I blow you down in this cabin."

Without a word, Grey obeyed, groaning in apparent pain. He did not look at his captain, however, for his eyes were now riddled in agony. "Captain," he began, trying to subdue the bitter sting in his ribs, "I didn't know. Smee never told—"

A harsh blow to the head ended whatever else he intended to say, as the butt of Hook's pistol rose and then descended once more, this time severing flesh from bone. A fount of odious crimson poured its bloody testament onto the pale parchment of flesh. The red taint of it masked the watchman's face, signing him as one marked for death, the dull white bone of his skull clearly showing through his mass of tousled dark hair. He did not even quaver as another thunderous strike befell him, as the next would be the final one.

But as for the one who delivered such vindictive and sanctimonious integrity did not take notice of his ignominious sense of justice, for his means of delivering his verdict was now raised, poised precariously into the air, and ready to strike the final, determining blow. Only the cry of an angel, whose sole innocence touched the beast within, stopped him. Hook glanced at the ill-fortunate watchman, and then to Wendy, the pistol falling deftly to the floor.

Nothing was said until Hook turned toward to a disbelieving Smee. "Get him out of my sight, before he is introduced to the claw," he echoed in a low voice, much subdued by the rage swelling within. "Take him to Crane, if you must; but only inform the good doctor that he has suffered a terrible blow to the head. Say nothing else, for I am sure that if Mr. Lovel values his miserable, poor excuse of a life, then he will know well than to tell the rest."

Smee only frowned, saying nought as he hauled an unconscious Grey over a bowed shoulder. Hook only watched the dismal scene with cold apathy, not caring if the witless bo'sun felt the pain of his burden, for he, too, was under the hook's displeasure this night. He moved to close the door, as his subordinate was unable, and then turned to Wendy.

"Miss Darling," he addressed in formal, his rigid demeanour now changed, "does the pain hurt much?"

When she did not answer, he drew closer, hovering over her pliant form. Her head turned away the moment his hand came to rest against a tearstained cheek, though her eyes glinted a dark shade of obsidian. Unwillingly drawing herself against his touch, she dared to speak: "I must say that you are still very much the heartless tyrant I remember, captain: both cold and cruel. Why should you concern yourself with something as trivial as an iron chain paining me, when you care not to listen to those who beg for your mercy?"

Whatever show of concern faded from his visage; his soothing hand fell away, the withdrawing appendage clearly injured by her demoralising conviction. "You are quite right, my dear," he replied disparagingly, his voice now shrouded in ice. "I care not for your pain, and I will not bestow any false sympathy for which you may desire. However, I cannot have you stumbling about and causing further harm to yourself. And so, with this said, you _shall_ answer my question: do you need anything to quell the pain?"

Wendy turned to him, her expression of wonder unveiled as he unshackled the gruesome cuff. "How did you—"

"Know?" he interjected, placing both manacle and key in his pocket. "I have had many captives held in the brig, Miss Darling. It would be rather remiss of me if I was ignorant of what an iron cuff could do to the flesh. Now,"—He moved towards her, his hand falling gracefully against her injured leg. Wendy inwardly flinched, but refrained from pulling away—"let me see the wound."

"No," Wendy objected weakly, her trembling hand moving over his, a silent plea within her eyes. "Please, allow me to look after it myself."

He glanced at her, as if deliberating, but then nodded. "Very well," he said, pulling away from her. "I will have Smee to bring what you require."

"Thank you," she murmured, though not for the bandages, but for his civility in proceeding no further with his examination. He could not see, could not know of her pain, or how horrid the injury.

And yet, he had specifically instructed that Smee cuff her other leg…

She set the puzzling thought aside and watched as the captain departed to the gallery window, his strange eyes now fixed on the darkening horizon. "You may believe me to be some vile, conscienceless creature that harms and wounds others mercilessly, but my actions are not without reason," he uttered after a long moment of silence, his icy gaze falling upon her. "As I shall kill any who dares to lay one hand upon you."

Her head rose at this fervent declaration, her eyes sorrowful. "Even if it is unintentional?" she asked, praying that he would show some trace of compassion for those who fell short of his irreverent grace. But Hook did not answer, for his stony expression revealed much. Wendy thus closed her eyes, already aware what his silence meant. And in the dark, swirling mass of her aching mind, she uttered her only desire of him: _Leave me._

And strange as it was the silence that followed in this gentle, yet firm, declaration did not go unheeded, for so movingly evocative was this plea that Hook retained whatever sense of control he had as he looked at her almost regrettably. Wendy watched him warily, feeling that the dynamic between them had changed into one of dissolution. She did not see the wrath or menacing scorn he had exhibited only seconds before, for the pistol still lay upon the floor, cold and neglected by its master, who had shown no intention of retrieving it.

The inner fury that raged underneath his imposing exterior had all but remained, leaving only a man—the same man who had held her so closely and trustingly only moments before—to stand before her and be judged. It was almost too unbearable, for his sight never left her, his eyes trying to express what words could not. She nearly shuddered under such a poignant stare, as those dark placid pools conveyed not anger, but resignation.

He looked utterly defeated. Like one who had lived through a world in all its chaos and despair, only coming to realise that his perilous journey had been for nought; and her words had made it so. He made no effort to speak, only acknowledged her as he shamefully moved to salvage the pistol. He placed it with its blood-covered handle back into his weapon sash, and then bowed to her, his mass of tangled black hair falling forward like a veil. She could not even see his face, for so concealed it was.

His head rose after a moment's silence, his eyes downcast. But he said nothing to his captive bride, only moved past her, as if she were not even there. He did not see, did not hear her stifled cry as he left the cabin; staggering, like a beast mortally wounded by a hunter's poisoned arrow.

Wendy watched him leave, his once proud and noble air reduced to a peasant's simple bearing. She did not even see the injured expression on his face, as a barrage of tears beset her eyes. Inwardly, she felt ashamed by her cruelty, though her reasons seemed justified in condemning him; the man had almost murdered one of his own crew without a second thought. But yet, despite her revulsion of such a brutal act, she could not help but long for the feel of his arms, or to simply be within his presence. And it was these feelings that frightened her above all.

She had to escape him somehow, before he could harm another. She was much too frightened, too unsure of his taciturn nature, which could be, at times, fatal. Escaping him and returning to her much beloved home and family was the only way, as he could not follow her out of the Neverland's restrictive boundaries. He would thus be unable to come after her and punish her for leaving, for she knew well that he had no intention of letting her go.

And as she considered this, she moved to sit upon the bed, her hand tracing over the hidden wound. It had been a mercy that she still had her silk stockings to cover the hideous injury, as Hook would have surely seen it. She closed her eyes then, her mind innocently recalling how his hand had clasped around it, his fingers moving ever so tenderly over the massive foray of uneven flesh and tissue. Graceful had he been in his ministrations, careful that he would not harm her by his delicate caress. She could still feel the cooling warmth in his touch, sadly knowing that after her escape she would never feel such again.

…

**Author's Note: I fear I must apologise to everyone for taking so long—a little over two months, in fact. Suffice it to say, I have had a _very _busy summer, what with newborn nephews who just love to be coddled and everything! (Smiles.) However, I do hope everyone has enjoyed this new chapter. I must confess that, at the beginning, I was not overly pleased by the chapter; but after going back and editing it, I am happy by how it turned out. I do also apologise for any errors; I really only looked over this once all the way through.**

**And I will say that Wendy got off fairly easy with the little stunt she pulled with her story. I really wanted Hook to punish her accordingly, but I suppose he had his own method. I daresay that he is not so out-of-character; that pistol-whipping doth reveal his brutality, which in turn led to the inevitable conclusion of this chapter. But feelings come, I suppose. The next chapter will prove as much. (Grins.)**

**Anyway, I really want to thank those of you who have taken the time to read this story. I do realise that my writing can be strenuous at times, but I promise a good story with a plotline and twists never before imagined in a _Peter Pan_ fiction. I doubt anyone will be disappointed by the end of this. At least I hope everyone will enjoy it. ;)**

**But again, thank you, everyone, for your input, thoughts, and kind considerations. I do greatly appreciate it.**


	8. Chapter Seven:Falls Deftly from His Side

Disclaimer: I do not own _Peter Pan_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners.

Promise of the Last Kiss

Chapter Seven

Almost a week had passed since the incident in the cabin, the days ebbing from one drifting current of time into the next. Nothing had changed within this transient interlude, for time itself seemed to have remained at a standstill, where all aboard continued in their daily rituals of maintaining the ship, however derelict and abandoned it had become.

It was a tragedy; for the massive vessel that sailors and future seafarers could only dream of imagining—much less envisioning as a reality—was almost in a state of utter ruin. A sickening grey film had covered its outer walls, as well as tainting many compartments within; only the guest's room, and most certainly that of the captain's, had remained untouched by the decay spent from years of neglect. For such had been the _Jolly Roger's_ fate under Hook's command.

Nevertheless, the crew's dedication, combined with their steadfast commitment in resuming their menial tasks, had shown allegiance to their captain. They did nought to arouse to his fury, which lay concealed underneath the calming exterior of such an indifferent and inexorable commander. In this, the crew obliged in _his_ will alone, despite whispered concerns for the sake of his ship. But more importantly, for the welfare of one who was deemed mistress of it.

Wendy sighed gently, her head falling against a glass windowpane. She looked to the sea, almost forlornly, and feeling just as cold and unsteady as the waves that rocked beneath the ship. The dark coming of twilight had finally descended, and with it the great galleon found itself at the slow, maritime flow of the evening tide.

Wind moved throughout the wide sails, a zephyr gifting the immense white sheets with its blessed breath of travel. The remnants of the isle of unending childhood were all but a memory now, as the _Jolly Roger_ sailed forth into uncharted waters, waters which lay unknown to its anxious mistress, and waters, which were surely far more perilous than the teasing eddies and gentle swells that often churned in the Neverland's rainbow waters.

And yet, to Wendy's surprise, the island did not call to her as it had in her youth. The sudden shift of its fading presence seemed almost trivial in a way, unimportant to the woman who gazed upon its receding shores. As another call, though fainter in its timbre, replaced the laughter of a child with a voice undeniably adult. She shuddered, and looked again to the waters below.

The sea had grown darker, choppy, like a gentle calm before a raging storm. Even the air was thickened by something that lay beyond the threshold of her mind. Her limited knowledge of the sea and its inner workings overshadowed the dread of some unknown force she had yet to encounter.

But what fantastic dangers lay ahead of her were surely far less fatal than the one that sat before her now: the cloaked figure of James Hook, with his gaudy attire and swarthy complexion—certainly fairer than most seamen—sat at her desk, book in hand. His refined posture marked him as one learned; even the way he managed in turning each ivory page of the novel he was reading—the elusive title still unknown to her—was evidence enough that he was far from the commonplace rabble that often infested pirate ships. He almost seemed out of place here, as if he belonged to a different world entirely.

As Wendy considered this, she could almost admit that she heard something resonate within his throat; a low, guttural sound emanating with each penned word read. She looked heavenward, almost asking for deliverance from the pain marked by his being there. He had been with her for hours, his presence remaining well after dinner; a dinner, mimicking those from the previous week, that remained a solitary occasion, since _she_ was the only one who had _actually_ dined. Hook had not partaken in anything, only wine, which he sipped rather reluctantly as he watched her throughout their silent meal.

For much like the days that dwindled into one another, so too, did they enter into a routine that bordered on the absurd. They rarely spoke, as the gauche silences and awkward stares were enough to staunch any means of a polite conversation. Even Smee had made himself scarce during these quiet, tedious moments of self-reflection. The other crew members, especially the marquis, said nothing in her presence when serving, for fear of the tacit looks his captain had often directed him. The matter of Grey Lovel and his mysterious injuries was never mentioned, particularly within earshot.

It was of little consequence, however, for such was the way of the man who had now made her his captive. She was a prisoner of this ship; without any freedoms, save for the few occasions when an obliging Smee would take her above deck and allow her to breathe the salty sea air. He had even been most kind in showing her around the ship; the captain's cabin and men's quarters were forbidden, of course, but the rest she had the pleasure in seeing. For it had been then that she noticed how much a terrible state the ship was truly in.

Dark brows knitted together in thought, much like they had upon her inspection. To the superstitious, deduced she, the ship appeared touched by some unseen hand. Like a pall that clouded all with its grey overcast, the vessel's guided movements remained a constant fixation of an ever-fastidious crew; though more aptly, that of a resolute pirate captain.

For nothing in this world seemed as it should.

A dark possibility overcame all thought as Wendy recalled her first visit to the Neverland. Her memories, though now perhaps indistinct in their actuality, were still painted in brilliant, blinding reds, as the shadowy expanse of Hook and all that he encompassed contrasted Peter's demesne. Darkness cloaked a memory almost foreign to her, where everything that a pirate's ship should be, was not. The sight of the _Jolly Roger_ from her recollections was a far cry from the wretched state it presently maintained. But of course, childhood exuberance could, more often times than not, cloud one's perception. And Wendy had never been a good judge of seeing things as they truly were…

She grimaced at this, wishing that the once great vessel reclaimed its refined state of beauty. She almost pitied it in a way, as she did for the crew and the harsh demands that Hook presented them. She empathised with the men for being under such a tyrannical and unjust leader, and especially for Grey did she feel a sense of compassion. The poor man did nought but to obey his captain's orders, though unwittingly managing to suffer from the consequences of his ignorance.

A frown besieged Wendy's gentle countenance. _Fool! Fool, am I! If only _I _had corrected him in his error_, thought she, _then he would not be in the doctor's care._ The injury derived from Hook's pistol had confined the unfortunate watchman to a fortnight below, for such were Crane's orders.

But even as guilt obliged Wendy's conscience for the man's flogging on her part, she could not help but blame Hook for the heart of it. The wretched man seemed unaffected, as he now sat, reading his novel and depriving her of any peace. She frowned bitterly. Of course his insufferable company had been a consequence of her rejecting him. It had done very little to quell his desire to see her, though; since he had made it his objective to call on her, even when she did not welcome him.

In truth, she hated him, despised him, though she knew not why. _But perhaps_, considered she, it was the way he sometimes looked at her with those strange, all-consuming eyes of his; or the manner in which he addressed her every evening upon his arrival; even the way he sounded in his departure each night had all been relative signs of an ardent desire to be near her—for he had made it no secret that he enjoyed it; as a smile, seen faintly at the corner of a crooked mouth, proved his pleasure.

Wendy inwardly sighed, knowing well that her spite was not entirely within reason; she remembered his touch and the way he comforted her with his fervent need to _protect_ her. Admittedly, it had even been pleasant in a way, almost reminiscent of something Henry should have done when upon seeing her after his long, extended trip to Paris. She closed her eyes, recalling how her betrothed did no such thing, as his own eyes had widened like moonstones, mouth gaping at the sight of her injury. He could not even embrace her, nor dare hold her hand in comfort. In fact, he had done nothing to subdue her pain and longing in seeing him.

Only Hook had done so. And even that had been a lie.

It was then that she looked at him, and repressed a shudder; his eyes not on the book, but on her. "Are you reading my mind once again, captain?" she asked with cold formality.

Hook gave her a passing glance, but then returned his attention to the book. "I believe your mind speaks more than you do, my dear," he returned quietly, turning a wilted page with his hook. "At least it is open and truthful, whereas you try to conceal whatever sentiments or thoughts you may have. I find your mind to be, at this moment, more interesting than you, Miss Darling."

She glowered at him, wanting nought but to deliver another verbal blow to his overblown pride. But in the end, she refrained and sighed in defeat, "I wish you would stop reading my mind."

At her words, Hook placed the book down, forgoing his reading entirely. He looked at her, gravely, before retorting, "Why not confess to it, then? I know how much you loathe me, as you utterly despise my being here. But why, may I pose, should you?" he questioned, his hook idly resting on the book's leather-bound cover. "I have not harmed your person. And the incident with the shackle was that watchman's doing, not my own."

Wendy frowned. "But you gave the order, to humble me," she reminded him. "And yet, you punished one for his loyalty to _you_."

The captain closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, a sign of true irritation. "I refuse to have this conversation with you," he said, as if weighted down by her disfavour. "It would do little to change your opinion of me, for you would still find me a tyrant who always makes _harsh_ demands of his crew. The point would be moot, my dear; everything is a _lie_ to you," he muttered, echoing her thoughts as he rose from his seat.

He approached her and saw how she flinched at his nearness. _Still so frightened;_ mused he, _and unfortunately, still very much a child._

Nevertheless, he looked down at her, offering her a comforting reprieve. "I will have Smee to take you above deck, as I shall trouble you no longer with my dreadful presence." Wendy looked up at him, eyes ever doubting. He merely smiled, though forced in the way a true smile should be. "The night air will ease your restlessness, since you have greatly borne my intolerable person. As I am sure that Smee will be better company than _I_," he added with a touch of envy. "Wait here, until he comes for you."

Without further instruction, he was without, locking the door behind him. Wendy was scarcely able to collect herself before her attention turned to the book left upon the desk. She walked over to it, careful not to stumble against the ship's lurching movements. Her hand drifted over the worn cover, tracing the faded gold lettering with uncertain fingers. She looked at it, her eyes discerning its mysterious title: _Les Contes du Temps Passé._

She nearly gasped, eyes gaping wildly at the book. It was written entirely in French. And though she could not efficiently translate the work, she could surmise its contents, for the beautiful illustrations of enchanted faeries, garrulous wolves that walked like men, and other magical creatures gifted the foreign words with their richly nuanced depictions—that had not faded over the decades from which it was first published—in the late seventeenth century. And wonder of all wonders did Wendy see that the manuscript itself was nothing but a collection of faerie stories, written and collected by what she could only assume was a famous French author.

A golden smudge on the book's spine was the only remaining trace of where the author's name should have been. She instantly presumed that a hand had worn away the delicate lettering by countless hours of reading, as such was the condition of the work itself.

_It must have been well-loved_, she quietly thought, _otherwise the captain would not read it, much less have it in his possession._

But of course she knew so little of the man, that it would be ill-considered to conclude anything. Had he not asked her trust him, only to later give cause to doubt his sincerity? The watchman's punishment was enough to drive any thought of Hook's request to the farthest reaches of her mind. In truth, she could not bring herself to confide in a man whose very presence could kill laughter and strike the merriest to a deadened silence. He was too dangerous to trust, and not solely for the ingenious weapon melded to his useless stump…

She quietly relented in such cruelties, scolding herself. Undeniably it was poor form to judge him so unkindly, but she could not forget the ominous glare cast by the hook's now-tarnished edge. Her reflective gaze darkened and her thoughts deepened. Why _did_ he allow his artificial limb, along with his ship and crew, fall to ruin? she wondered, unable to fathom any legitimate reason; for it was as if he no longer cared for anything, save for his need to have her by any means necessary. And that thought, with its haphazard intent, troubled her most of all.

Though whatever dreadful misgivings she had of her captor were suddenly dismissed as a knock sounded at the door. Wendy smiled, truly relieved, when she saw the gentle countenance of Smee. She set the book aside, her present concern resting with the timid bo'sun.

"Good evening, Mr. Smee," she said upon greeting, her eyes looking questionably toward the dark cloak he held.

"Oh, 'tis fer you, Miss Wendy. The master didn't want ye ta catch cold, as a storm be brewin' on the horizon." He shook his head and smiled, in spite of his present worry. "But don't ye fear none, miss; we've been through storms an' squalls enough, an' the master be the one controllin' the wheel now. Won't be long afore we reach the Barrier. The storm is the sign we've been waitin' fer these last days."

A sable brow rose in question at this. "What do you mean?" Wendy asked, truly puzzled. "What is this Barrier you speak of?"

Smee feigned surprise, clearly amused by Wendy's perplexity. "Why, 'tis the only barrier between here an' ferever that separates the child part o' Neverland from the rest o' it." He grinned, showing a few gaps in his yellowed teeth. "I thought ye knew about the other isles, miss. Why, there'll be an entire world there, jest waitin' ta greet ye!"

Wendy bit her lip, a slight blush staining her cheeks. "I somehow doubt that, Mr. Smee," she shyly remarked, gingerly accepting the offered cloak. She placed it over her shoulders, the wedding gown now eclipsed by a swath of dark, midnight-blue. The captive bride smiled, as it was indeed an engaging colour, complimenting the virginal-white underneath with an air of dignified grace. But yet, in spite of her bewilderment for the captain's thoughtful gesture, she could smell the faint fragrance of the sea and something entirely foreign—yet so achingly familiar—within its velvety folds.

"I must apol'gise fer it not fittin' ye, miss. 'Tis the master's, ye see," Smee muttered by way of explanation. "Said ye didn't 'ave one, so he decided ta lend ye one o' his. Good man, my master. Always puttin' others afore him, he does." He looked at her, blithely shaking his white head. "But come along, miss. I'm sure that ye'd much rather prefer a walk on deck, as ta stayin' cooped up in this cabin. Won't do fer ye not ta walk that leg of yers since…" He hesitated, reluctant to mention the incident with the shackle. "Well, ye need ta walk, anyway," he finished lamely, supporting her as they left her beautiful prison of gold and fabricated illusions.

…

An hour had passed, with Smee's company being the pinnacle of her evening. Wendy enjoyed his comical anecdotes of his time at sea, and also those of the crew's—however forced in their smiles and laden with their duties they were—as they no less had a kind word to say to her. Even the ship's surgeon, Joshua Crane, bowed to her in a genial manner, and thus inducing her in a polite discussion based on scientific theory. His momentary lapse in the subject had inspired her interest before he himself took leave of her company: back to the room he called a _laboratory_.

It had indeed been comforting to see the doctor's face, which did not reflect anything improper or amoral, as his conversation appeared quite innocent of such provocative and lascivious things, unlike his captain, who stared at her from the ship's helm even now.

Wendy subdued her revulsion, ignoring those unnaturally golden-blue eyes as they stared, analysing her with something she could not name. The captain's eyes had remained upon her for the last hour; since the moment she came above deck with Smee had Hook set upon her with his unsettling gaze, watching her. And in a depraved sort of way, Wendy felt important somehow, like she had a sense of power over him. But she refused to admit to such; not even unto herself could she dare confess that she _almost_ enjoyed his attention being lavished upon her. For what lady, with a hint of reason, could ever want a man as James Hook to look upon her with pained longing in his eye?

She shook her head. It was absurd to think such wicked thoughts; and yet she pursued them, as she had all evening. In her reflection, Wendy knew she considered him with more than a mild interest—especially when he stayed with her, reading a children's book of faerie-tales. In itself, the reality of his choice was perplexing, though his acknowledgment of her, as with other evenings spent in her company, retained a secret stare out of the corner of a furtive eye. Certainly the book was only a prop to mask his true intent; Wendy could scarcely recall a time—if any—when his intentions had ever been noble, as the man himself was far from the definition of the word.

A thoughtful sigh escaped her, as her present companion, whose spectacled gaze now questioned her, moved aside from the railing from which he leant against. "Ye look mighty thoughtful, miss," Smee remarked kindly, though a touch of concern lay deeply hidden within his otherwise jubilant tone. "Anythin' the matter?"

The captive bride shook her head. "No, I was merely…thinking," she said evasively, and then assured him with a confiding smile. "It is nothing to be concerned over, I promise you."—She looked to the night's sky, as if emphasising her point—"The night has a way of making me remember things I had done as a child, things I had almost forgotten."

Smee nodded, not wholly understanding his mistress' meaning, but agreed anyway. "Aye, miss. The night can clear one's head from the strife of a hard day's work. 'T'aint nothin' more refreshin' than ta walk the deck and clear the old thinker of nonsense." He grinned. "Aye, must be why me master always comes up 'ere o' the night, ta think. The lad 'ad so many questions as a boy. Always askin' me about things I didn't e'en know existed. Must've gotten it from his mother, that one. But ta give the mistress credit, she herself was a smart one, his mother." He paused, nervously removing his spectacles and wiping away what could almost be considered as a tear.

But before Wendy could discern if it was a true mark of his upset, he replaced the foggy lenses, inhaling the night air with a timid breath. He looked at her, then to the deck's weathered flooring. "The night _does_ make one think," he almost whispered, his gaze forlorn. "It makes one think almost too—"

"Mr. Smee," a strident voice called behind them, the figure of a silhouetted Adrian McManus coming into view.

"What is it, lad? What be the trouble?" queried the bo'sun.

Adrian faltered, wringing his blistered hands. "Several o' the riggin' lines 'ave worn away from the past storms, an' we 'ave no others ta repair 'em wit'," he added gravely, a twisted frown blighting his pale features. "If we go through the Barrier, then they won't hold fer long."

"Aye, 'tis troublesome indeed," Smee concurred, albeit reluctantly. He frowned, his silvery-grey eyes considering, debating. He then looked at the deckhand and decided. "Have the lads ready when I come. I must tell the master, afore we reach it," he ordered, and then turned to Wendy. "Miss, I must beg yer forgiveness, but I 'ave ta go fer now. Would…ye like me ta take you back down, then?"

Wendy shook her head. "Oh, no," she quietly objected, "I would rather much like to stay above for a little longer. That is, if you believe 'twill be all right?"

The boatswain's frown deepened, uncertain. "A'right," he said, after a moment of doubtful consideration. "But stay ta where one o' us can see ye. Don't wander off or anythin', the master'll have me head if you do."

"Of course not, Mr. Smee," Wendy reassured him, "I promise to stay here, where 'tis safe. You have my word."

Smee grinned, his old delight returning. "As a lady, no doubt. A'right, miss, I shall leave ye, then. But remember, if we reach the Barrier, I'll have ta take ye back down," he warned, and then took his leave with a smiling Wendy staring after him, silently thanking him for this one chance he had fortuitously given her.

She closed her eyes, praying against fate that Hook would not punish the old bo'sun for letting her escape. After all, it had been by crude deception to have him believe in her promise; and in a way, she would keep it, as she would not leave the safe enclosure of the quarter deck, but would only relieve herself of the ship entirely. Inside, however, it pained her to know that she would leave the crew, and especially Smee—whom she had come to almost confide in—to Hook's insatiable wrath.

It was an unjust punishment, she realised, but one she could ill afford if she did not take this chance…

Thus, she stood, her well-adorned figure moulding itself against the railing. She vaguely listened to the conversation between the captain and Smee, who had finally gathered the courage to tell his superior of the ship's dilemma; which, consequently, forced Hook's all-seeing gaze to shift away from her. She could hear him curse, his genteel profanities of both ship and crew almost lost to the wind and lapping waves. A harsh string of orders were thus given, and Smee reluctantly nodded; face haggard by his master's stinging reprimand.

Instant pity overcame the captive bride as she watched the faltering boatswain, who stumbled in his need to tend to his master's will. She cast a baleful glance at her captor and cursed his name once more. _Indeed, he should be damned_, Wendy inwardly thought, seething. What goodness she believed existed in that dark pit once called a soul was vanquished; as it had been for years, she was sure. Perhaps it had never even existed…

A tired sigh fell away from her and she cast her gaze to the deck, her dark stare discerning the intricate woodwork that could only be found on the quarter deck. Naturally the grey film that encompassed the vessel was here, as well. She could not see any significant difference, as years of neglect had wrought its destruction: the floorboards beneath her feet rotting away, as with the rest of the ship.

It would be by Fate's good grace if the galleon survived through this much anticipated storm. Squall or no, this tangible representation of a ghost ship would find a vacant berth in Jones' wasteland of haunted vessels if it failed against its approaching adversary—who echoed with a sounding roar of thunder in the distance.

In its presence, Wendy breathed a sigh of relief, plotting her next course of action. As she considered her means of escape, however, she inwardly grimaced, a sorrowful look cast at her wedding gown. The garment would surely be seen. She quietly despaired, for even in this impregnable darkness, would it certainly give alarm to any who happened upon her floating figure. The virginal white train and overall colouring betrayed her in this, even if it was wrinkled and dirtied after a week's wearing.

Undoubtedly, Wendy reflected, her mother would be horrified, her aunt swooning at the sight of it. The wondrous gown had now been reduced to a wrinkled mass of satin and lace. The train had a few minute tears, the hem soiled by her constant movement. However, Wendy, in spite of her dishevelled appearance, smiled ruefully. Life aboard a pirate ship was certainly no place for a costly wedding gown; it had become nothing more than a soiled heap that even the lowliest scullery maid would not have.

To her credit, though, she could not fault herself entirely for wearing it with such devoted consistency. Hook had not offered her another gown after her last rejection, as she wholeheartedly refused to accept anything from him. Only her shift and undergarments were exempt of the sullied aura she emitted, and that solely for a daily bath, which was always drawn well after she awoke. The shift and its feminine companions were barely dry by the time the captain came to call at evening tide.

And yet, she had managed to survive thus far, wholly intact and burning with a need to escape. She had to return home, she realised. But what would her parents think of her if she told them the truth of where she had gone? Would they believe her? Or would her dreadful Aunt Millicent conjure up some scandal of an elopement with Hook? Dear God, the wretched woman would, as she had always thought the worst in her errant niece.

And then Wendy considered a most interesting conjecture. What _would_ Aunt Millicent do if Hook came under their roof and proclaimed that he had married her only niece? She would surely disown the family altogether and proclaim her attempts in rearing girls into respectable young ladies an ultimate failure. The look on the spinster's rouge-covered face would then counter that of a lord's disappointment when his prize faire lost at the races.

This last thought made Wendy smile. Her aunt would surely faint if she thought for one second that she would have an outlaw for an in-law; and for a pernicious moment, Wendy entertained the idea. Indeed, her captor was a far cry from what any _civilised_ young woman with a hope of marriage could want for in a suitor; he was so different from her fiancé…and Peter. She frowned.

Peter.

She quietly admonished herself. It was foolish to think such things of a man she had every right to hate. What would Henry think if he knew where his fiancée's thoughts drifted to? What would her parents say if they realised that their beloved daughter now considered the prospect of a criminal wedding her? But more importantly, what would Peter _do_ if he knew that _his_ Wendy, his storyteller and only mother contemplated such a blasphemous union with his enemy? She could not even consider the outcome that would follow such an ill-fortuned meeting.

It was then that her eyes found Hook, his darkly-clad figure holding fast at the helm. He glared out into the forthcoming storm, his icy gaze challenging the tempest and its primordial makers. Wendy was taken slightly aback by the sight, noticing how his eyes cast an eerie golden glow amidst the surrounding darkness. He looked almost godlike; utterly divine, as he dominated the whole of the ship with his fearsome determination and inherent will to overcome his present opposition: the brooding storm.

Wendy almost dared a feeling of admiration for his audacity. His controlling need, combined with an unknown strength that went unsurpassed by human and immortal alike, confronted this faceless foe had all but encouraged her from turning away. No, even if she were to live beyond a century could she not admit her secret wonder, her growing intrigue of this man. And it was this same, nameless fascination that had imprisoned her.

She had to escape; otherwise she would forever be his prisoner. And no wonder, no matter how curious in its charm and appeal, could deter her from returning to those who needed her most; especially John, who still said nothing in the wake of her music and soft-spoken words. Her eyes darkened to cold obsidian, her mind set: she would leave the captain and his world of unending questions and unknown feelings. She had to forget him, leave behind the beloved voice with the man who had inspired it.

Her troubled mind cleared and her thoughts lifted. She felt light, almost unbound in a dizzying way. The image of her childhood and its past instances—both filled with pain and pleasure—compelled her to drift into their welcoming embrace. She remembered the last thing John had said to her before he left her and his remorseful family for the war, feeling the strength and comfort in his still boyish voice: _Everything will turn out, dear sister, just you see. And by the looks of it, I will return before Christmas and find you married on me!_

She smiled at this, still remembering things, things she had almost forgotten in her transformation between child and woman. They returned, her memories, the visions of the past moving like a slide of silent pictures, their soundless movements forcing her further into the world of long ago…and into the presence of one she dared not forget.

"Peter," she whispered quietly, her thoughts solely of him. She called out his name from the depths of her child's soul, her mind only of happy thoughts. She felt the deck beneath her fall away, abandoning her completely. She smiled contentedly, her happy thought found at last. Like a lifeline, she held onto it, and was lifted into the air…

…Only to be brought down by a spiteful end of a hook. Wendy was jolted awake, her feet set firmly upon the ground. She gasped; face whitening in fear when she looked into the eyes of an expressionless Hook.

His hand tightened its grasp on her shoulder, as his hook, though dulled, tore into the cloak. He glared at her, his gaze as desolate and frozen as ice. "What do you think you are _doing_?" he demanded, not without a hint of malice. When she did not answer, he shook her violently. "You will not abandon me!" he muttered in a cold, condescending whisper.

"Let go of me!" Wendy cried, unable to fight against his possessive hold. She looked down, ceasing in her attempt, her body giving in to his biting touch. "Please," she appealed softly, "let go. I promise I will not try to escape."

But Hook only shook his head, unmoved by her heartfelt pleas. "No, I dare not, my dear. Otherwise, you will think of that stupid little boy and try to fly away again." He scowled. "I should return there now and tear his throat from its moorings." His hook drove deeper into her side, the blunted tip piercing through both the cloak and the thick bodice of her gown. She trembled in his dark wake, shuddering against his unyielding form. "Indeed, I should set a course for it now. I could then allow a short reunion between the two of you, before I reintroduce him to my hook. You would like to see him again, would you not?" His eyes became venomous slits of rage. "Perhaps then you would see _why_ he has forgotten you."

Tears filled Wendy's eyes, her face a beautiful mask of confusion. "And why would he forget me?" she asked bravely, feeling the edge of the hook withdraw. Hook smiled mordantly.

"Do you honestly not know?" he questioned mockingly, and then obliged her, as he was nothing less than a gentleman. "Why would he want someone who has grown up and left the world of childhood behind, when he could very well find another who has not?" He looked at her, his words and expression gravely serious. "He has replaced you, Wendy—with several other children, I might add. Why do you think he has not come for you, hmm? It is because you have grown up and betrayed him."

"No, no I would never," she whispered faintly, her voice filled with denial.

A sob, riddled with the pain of his words and the knowledge of how true they were, escaped her, her lips faltering with every hollow breath. She felt the weight of the captain's words crush her, submerse her in their drowning emphasis. Her lungs filled with the bittersweet poison that tainted every word spoken. And yet, she could not deny that he spoke truly: Peter had indeed forgotten her.

And just as this revelation befell her, she felt the edge of the hook at her throat, its tarnished side gleaming darkly against the ship's lamplight. A soothing breath, much like the kiss of a zephyr, fell against her, the cool, ruddy sensation of its evenly induced calm making her tremble with the knowledge that he was so near. She barely felt the hook move against her skin, so deep was she in thought. The cold metal startled her, as her captor moved the bloodless instrument across the base of her throat, down to where her mother's pearls should have been.

"Pan will not come for you," he said at last, his soulless eyes confiding in her that solitary truth. The resilient edge of his claw expertly twisted around the chain that held Peter's kiss, making her quaver. Hook studied it, his eyes becoming critical, almost resentful by such ignorant simplicity. "He will not come, as his kiss cannot return a life not in danger." He glared scornfully at the mere mention of his adversary. "That impudent brat could never imagine the consequences he would derive from his actions. He left _you_ to the pain and misery in suffering alone. And where was he, when you needed him most? Out on yet another one of his ridiculous adventures."

Wendy gasped, feeling the hook release the kiss from its deadly grasp. But the captain ignored her, continuing on with his tirade. "He is a selfish, foolish boy. Can you not see that, Wendy?" he asked of her. "He abandoned you to live a life of solitude; and in doing so, he left you to me. This kiss," Hook spat, "cannot protect you from me, as it was your mother's _pearls_ that held that power." A sardonic laugh escaped him then, his ill humour laced with spite. "I could not have you until you removed them. And such the naïve, innocent beauty you are, you did. As the greatest irony of all is that you placed your deepest faith in someone who had rejected you long ago."

But as he spoke this, he cradled her crestfallen face against a weathered hand as a means of comfort. _But I am grateful you did, beauty_, his mind whispered thoughtfully. _If you had not, I would have been unable to bring you here… _

"To stay with you," Wendy finished for him, and Hook nodded. She looked at him, seeing for the first time a newfound hope timidly linger within those dull irises. For a moment, she considered them; almost swearing that his eyes revealed what his silence could not.

But as much as she yearned to believe in his unspoken promise, she hardened her heart against him, feeling the acrid sting of his words quench any compassion. She glared at him; her dark eyes a fathomless sea of resentment and disappointment. Darkness clouded her vision, that ebony haze subjecting her to the image she knew only to be her captor: a cold-hearted murderer who cared for nought but his own hatred; as it was this elaborate illusion of grandeur that turned her away from him completely.

"I would have favoured if you had left me to the endless dark and loneliness of my suffering. I much prefer it over _your_ company." She laughed bitterly, her voice not her own. "If I had known it was you, I would have shut you out of my mind long ago. You disgust me, captain; as I would rather have you run me through with that piece of metal you call a hand, than to have you touch me with it."

The hopeful light in the captain's eyes flickered, consequently dimming until being quenched completely and thus leaving Wendy to watch the hideous transformation between man and loathed tormenter. Whatever sentiment of kindness immediately fell away, as molten fury replaced it. His eyes became cruel, almost feral in their golden radiance.

He said nothing in his assessment of her, his searing gaze inexorably drawing to her left hand, whereupon lie a ring, a ring that he had surely not given her. He glared at it, mutely cursing the one who had bestowed _his_ Wendy with such an overly embellished gift. Jealousy, like no other, burned within him; for he knew not what enraged him more, the ring or the ungrateful little siren that stood before him.

The matter was of little consequence, however, for he took possession of the offensive hand, his agile fingers artfully twisting the band from its keep. He released her hand then, the prize sought within his grasp. He considered it, critically, his impassive expression revealing a disgusted sneer before looking to her as he cast the ring unto an accepting sea. Wendy paled under this irreversible act, her one, tangible connection with Henry severed forever.

For just as this concept of eternity lay within a second, Wendy felt the captain's arms—not the rusted edge of his claw—embrace her within their suffocating hold. Without a word, he held her, his face a crude illustration of inimitable ire. She was rendered silent, her unwilling body conforming to his. For just as divine as he was in clawing one of his adversaries with the skilled measure allotted his hook, could he now gracefully execute in sustaining Wendy, forsaking her ascent to Heaven. The crushing hold of his arms thus epitomised his claim of her: a dark power, absolute.

And just as darkly, he carried her, the crew ignorant of his unimagined endeavour, their attention fixed in securing the ship. They saw not Wendy's fear, nor her anguish, as she was spirited away, into the stygian depths of _his_ dwelling.

She felt the hurried lurch in his movements, his purposeful gait a dark and merry path to destruction. It was almost poetic in a way. For much like the rape of the spring maiden from tales of old, she felt her own Hades abstract her from everything she knew and loved, plunging her into the nightmare world in which he thrived, never to be alone in its transcending shadows ever again.

She suppressed a deepening fear, finding that, upon first glance, she and her captor very much portrayed that of a couple, newly married; the blushing bride being carried over the threshold by her besotted love. Wendy shook her head, achingly aware of the dangers in such a fantasy, and how she and Hook were _far_ from that ingenious concept. The man was most certainly going to murder her in the privacy of his chambers, behind closed doors.

As this dreaded thought crossed the apex in her mind, she noticed that she was through the cabin's ominous threshold—that strangely no longer carried his name and crest on its outside, nor had it any other detail relaying his captain's station—and straightway passing through another, which looked relatively new in its structure. Her eyes then widened at the sight they now took in; the small passageway between doors seemed something akin to an antechamber, like one found in a great mansion or palace. For a scant moment, she took in the gratifying wonder of the cabin's simple, yet tasteful opulence, before feeling a strong pair of arms set her down, those same arms that once held her with such adoration; and at other times, contempt.

Wendy did not acknowledge Hook's presence, even as he closed the first set of doors, locking them thrice before returning to her. Instead she looked to the safety of the floor, which simulated the same dull colouring as the deck above. Doubtless she took in its dismal grey tones with great appeal, her gaze settling on anything except the tangible apparition before her, that same manifestation that would most certainly slit her throat from whence she stood.

She inwardly frowned. It had been a mistake to speak to him thusly. Had she not recognised a faint trace of red in his eye, or the pleasantly cruel way he collected himself? Dear God, she had been a fool to contradict him, especially her words concerning his hook…

He would surely take pleasure in killing her now, for had she not committed the worst of all sins? Indeed, she would be a nice little addition to the mermaids' _collection_; and he would not have to use the plank to make such a reality. No, with a sharp swipe of his hook, and then a caustic throw of a lifeless body overboard, would be all that was deemed necessary in ridding himself of her. He would not even be required to hold a requiem mass, especially since the deceased was not of the Roman order.

_It would end rather nicely_, she dryly thought; Hook only saw her as a means to an end, nothing more. Their long conversations that spanned into many nights of awaited anticipation, his comforting words during her countless hours of need—it could not have been real, or sincere, as his only concern was surely revenge. Hook could not care for her, nor could he ever come to…

She disregarded the thought before it fully formed in her mind. It would hurt too much to even consider it.

Silently she discounted her half-construed thoughts before looking—shamelessly at the one who made her feel like no other—into the face of the man who had often haunted her every waking thought. The captain of dreams, much unrealised, now stood before her, where all else was completely forgotten.

A moment of silence passed between them, though neither noticed its fleeting significance. No, their only thoughts were of each other, as both stared, eyes locking in a forbidden mêlée where only one would be the remaining conqueror. It was a silent war that would take the mettle of most men and lead kings and pawns into utter ruin, and one neither intended to lose.

Hook stared forebodingly into the eyes of his storyteller, his beautiful bride that no longer had a ring to chain her. Now she was his, completely, as no other could lay a legitimate claim and take her from him. Whereas such, he would allow _nought_ come between them, not when he had fought a decisive battle of wits against the will of her dispassionate family and a world of careless suitors to have her. If only she knew of the private war he fought in her name…

But alas, Wendy was ignorant of these inherent truths as she believed his vacant expression a mask to conceal his hatred of her, for had he not taken the ring Henry had given her in such a fury? It was lost to her now, though, the sea gladly accepting what was offered unto it—no matter how precious or valuable it had been to another. She frowned, recalling that the ring itself meant nothing to her, only the promise of what lay behind it. And even that had she begun to question.

However, her suspicions abated when she noticed the captain had taken his leave of her, his back facing her as he hovered over a desk, covered in maps. He looked ominous with his stormy gaze that now belayed the fragile maps. He said nothing in his silent observation of them, however, only retained a sense of control over the possessiveness that now besieged him. Wendy could never fathom the potential danger she was in presently.

For within the dark confines of his cabin, she was his, as no other could enter without the key—which remained close to his person at all times; even Smee did not have a duplicate to the master cabin. And no matter how trusted Smee was in his loyalty and services, could Hook afford such a mishap if the key were misplaced by his crazed subordinate…

Even so, the captain remained quiet, as if in a trance with the object of his affections standing, unsure, before him. He did not even acknowledge her, for so rapt was he in thoughts that he did not see her dithering movements in the dimly-lit cabin.

_It is so frightfully dark in here_, Wendy thought to herself, and then was surprised to see a foray of unlit candlesticks alight themselves with fiery flame. She almost drew away from them, wondering how such a strange and otherworldly act could materialise from nothing. It was not until she looked upon the knowing face of Hook did she know the reason: he had read mind once again; and in doing so, managed a feat beyond anything humanly possible.

And it was then Wendy realised that the man who stood before her was outside the perceptions of her own, limited beliefs. This man with his blackavised face and eyes of the forget-me-not was something more, something past the lavish clothing and iron hook. He was beyond the pale, more than human. As this man was _not_…the captain.

_How could he be_, her mind questioned_, when he can read minds and pull people through tears in the universal blanket of existence? _Something had happened to him after his demise with the crocodile. But what, exactly, she knew not; and that uncertainty troubled her greatly.

"Is the lighting not to your liking, Miss Darling?" Hook's dark and penetrating voice languidly drawled out from across the cabin, his eyes still fixed upon the map before him. Wendy looked away, unable to bear the sight of his rigid demeanour a moment longer. His preternatural knowing of all the inner workings of her mind was too much for her to accept. It was as if he forced himself upon her without having to lay one lustful hand upon her skin; and as this thought passed the worried contours of her mind, she withdrew from his presence entirely.

Hook noticed her sudden evasion of him, the map completely forgotten. He moved forward, his dark brows drawing together in a firmly set line of suspicion. "What is it now?" he questioned, almost tiredly. Receiving only silence, he sighed, an air of discontent pervading him. "Why are you afraid to be in my presence? I have laid not hand—nor hook—upon you. Why is it that you fear me so?" he demanded, moving closer until he was finally upon her, his towering form dwarfing her.

Wendy felt his cool breath upon her already chilled flesh, heard the controlled breathing that made such a man. She closed her eyes, his tirade of endless questions still ringing, like silent death tolls within her mind. Could she tell him? she wondered. Could she confess her fear and leave his chambers wholly intact and without blemish? To do so, she knew, was to die. But even that seemed to be the only avenue of escape now, as her mind was now a traitor, subtly switching alliances and working solely for the man who sought to keep her.

With this, Wendy conceded, finally giving in to all of her fears and insecurities. But most of all, to the innate concern she had for his unnatural abilities, abilities that no mortal was meant to have. A deep, resolute breath escaped her, and her eyes found his.

"You are not natural," she began slowly, almost fearfully. "Everything that I know as reason and sense is defied by you. You read minds, as if they are nothing more than mere words uttered into existence." She glanced hysterically about the room, a great congregation of brightly-lit candles emphasising her meaning. "You have influence beyond anything that is considered human, and that in itself is most disturbing," her soft voice gently accused. "And even more, is that you use it to your advantage. You deceived me, having me to believe that you were some wondrous, ethereal entity that knew and understood my pain. You had me to believe, knowing that, in my naïveté, I would trust you. You never even—"

"I never lied to you!" Hook coldly interjected. "Not once did I deceive you, Wendy. I came to you, whenever you called out to me. I did not have to, but I did—because you _wanted_ it." He glowered at her, his eyes molten-gold. "But you have not answered my question: why do you fear me, when you know that I would never harm you?"

"Because you are not normal!" Wendy cried out, against the fear that threatened to consume her. "If you were the same man as you were when I first met you, I would not have a reason to fear you so. But you are not now. You are something completely different, and that frightens me beyond anything I have ever known." She looked at him, a hint of revulsion tainting her sorrowful face, as her next words were the most potent in her condemnation of him. "It is as if you have stolen something that does not belong to you, to be like Peter. But you will never compare to him, as you could never be anything more than the wretched villain you are!"

With this, she turned from him, running to the open double doors that closed shut and locked before she could pass through them. She felt a hand wrench her from their promising escape, her body crudely twisting to face the one who now held her captive. He looked at her, his callous expression not betraying the inner rage that churned maddenly from within.

"Is that what you believe? That my only desire is to be like that filthy little brat?" he asked, his tone filled with incredulity. "Oh, no, my dear, how wrong you are to assume such a silly thing." His eyes held hers, their unnatural gleam resentful and condescending. "You would condemn me for having something that only Pan was meant to have. But is it such a sin that I could be anything remotely similar to that flying little menace that you so adore?" he remarked bitterly. "You damn me unjustly, beauty."

Wendy remained silent to his censure, feeling those invidious arms capture her within their covetous hold. In his possession, Hook sequestered her unwilling form, knowing that she waged a losing battle against him. He cared not for her cries of outrage, nor for her constant struggle, only the need to make her see, make her understand that he only wished for her to—

"Let go of me, you monster!" she cried, fighting against him. When she could not subdue his unnatural hold on her, she resorted to words instead. "You will not succeed in this wicked scheme of yours. Even if you were to have a trace of magic in you, Peter would still—"

"I grow tired of your comparing me to him!" he shouted, carrying her to the bed, which had remained obscure and unthought-of until then. He glowered at her, his breathing unsteady. "You may see me as a monster," he said after a long moment, "but 'tis _you_ who will not even grant me a chance to prove myself worthy of your affection. You would have yourself to believe me nothing more than a villain in your stories, leaving me as nought but a heartless creature without a soul." He shook his head, laying her gently upon the bed.

Quietly, he considered her before joining her on the crushed crimson velvet sheets. "If this is the only way I can prove myself to you, then so be it," he whispered against her ear, and eclipsed her body with his. He looked down at her, the rage within his eyes strangely vacant, washed away by the sight of her pliant form cocooned in his torn cloak. Mindlessly he shed the remnants of the shredded mantle and placed a hand against her face, his fingers lightly tracing over a tearstained cheek.

In silence he touched her, comforting her with only his hand as his guide. He moved over her, his rough, leathery fingers falling deftly against her delicate ivory skin, memorising each elusive ridge and contour of her throat and collarbone. The curious appendage then shifted to her dark hair, now unbound, a silken mass. He gazed intently at her face and faintly smiled. She was so beautiful, so undeniably innocent. It would be a shame if she wasted either upon one less deserving.

But that was something that had been prevented, he reminded himself. He would not allow another to taint her with the festering corruption that came from their world beyond the Neverland, as he could not bring himself to defile her, not even for his own selfish ends. He closed his eyes, blind to the wide-eyed terror that beset his storyteller, who remained fatefully ignorant of his unshared thoughts.

Wendy stared up at him, her crude captor, and almost quavered at the barely restrained control melded within his stern expression. He looked ready to devour her, as a lion would its captured prey. She wanted to cry out, fight against the inevitable. But unfortunately, could not. For whatever power he held over her had inducted an invisible force, preventing her from movement. Thus, leaving her entirely at his mercy…

And yet, his touch was unlike anything she had ever before felt. With each gentle caress, his fingers incited something deep, intrinsic, hidden within. Like an innocent child who lay on the verge of adulthood, she felt wary of this unknown sensation, though strangely welcomed it, nonetheless. His now lingering touch made her feel open, alive. It was as if he intended to resurrect her soul, which had lain in a cold tomb of ice and death, and return it to the living world. And his lips, those strange abrasive lips, hovered over the skin of her throat before making their descent, tenderly upsetting the affected flesh with a barrage of soothing kisses.

He touched her in a way that no other had, a way that would surely bring shame upon her family and the Darling name. Her Aunt Millicent would be appalled by her conduct, her parents disgraced. But yet, within the throes of this unimagined thing deemed passion, she could have cast all propriety to the wind and accept whatever promise her captor held. His touch seemed almost sincere; his lips were tender, remitting. And even where he only concerned himself with the use of one hand, could Wendy find a distinct feeling of pleasure from it; the hook and all of its dangerous tidings carelessly cast aside, forgotten by both.

But as Wendy enjoyed this thoughtless liberation, she realised his true intent: he was seducing her, bending her once again to his will. And it was this subtle act of betrayal that turned all thoughts of happiness away. She felt cold now, tainted by his evocative touch. Even his kisses made her inwardly cringe in disgust. How could she have allowed him to go so far, and she not oppose it? She felt disgraced, ruined by him.

And so, in silence, she cried, rivulets of crystalline tears streaming their unspoken acceptance of her fate down ashen cheeks. She could not even bear to look at him, closing her eyes, ready to yield to the power he now commanded. It was not until she heard her name uttered so gently, that she could scarcely believe it spoken.

"Wendy," Hook quietly murmured, his hand smoothing away a discordant tear. "Why do you cry?"

Her eyes opened at this soft-spoken inquiry, her tumultuous gaze revealing her answer. She bit her lip, almost frightened to speak, but gathered her remaining courage, and finally whispered, "Because I know of what you intend to do with me, and all I can ask is that show mercy and kill me. I could not bear it if I were…" But she could not say it, could not as she looked frantically at the hook—which had not touched her throughout his wondrous ministrations—her eyes begging him to be swift and accurate. "Please, I am so afraid…"

His hand withdrew from her shoulder, as if burnt by her words. "Is that what you believe my feelings toward you are?" he questioned, his eyes full of pained disbelief. "Do you think I would harm you? That I would be so lowly as to rape you? Oh, Wendy…" His worried visage melted into one of inner loathing, one that ran far deeper and more sinister than the dark imaginings she believed him capable of.

Wendy watched him, his once proud and noble figure wilting pathetically before her. He looked empty, without form or expression, as if the very essence of life had abandoned him. She gazed into the hazy forget-me-nots, and saw something she had not expected to see: finding the truth within them at last.

But what she discovered almost startled her, for as she looked into the darkened recesses that surrounded the gleam in his eyes, she saw only shadows, no light within their blotted depths. It unsettled her. But even more than the deadened gaze he cast, was the undeniable truth that she could not see her reflection within them. They were hollow, utterly lifeless, and completely without. This man had no soul. Or was otherwise cursed by some formidable entity—a foe that knew not time nor space. She did not know which, only the despairing reality of his ever-labyrinthine being; he was ever so much more complex than the childlike simplicity of Peter. And as she considered this, she knew that she had been mistaken to have accused him so unjustly.

"Captain, I—" But he silenced her apology with his hook.

"I may be the evil, wretched villain of your nightmares, but do not delude yourself into believing that I could be so without moral." He wrenched himself away from her, wholly repulsed.

He looked at her under hooded eyes, the pale irises full of an emotion that even the greatest face-reader could not define. "Trust me in this, my beauty: I do not take women against their will. Nor do I force myself upon innocents such as you. I would rather be shot by my own crew, than to allow you to be dishonoured in such a way. But of course, you would not believe that," he grated out darkly, "as you are one to always perceive the worst in me."

With this, he pulled her from the bed, his mind unlocking the doors as he led her to them. He paused before the last set, the ones that led out to the deck—to her freedom. For a moment, he said nothing, only breathing a stifled breath of air before exhaling it in the same breathless shudder. He turned to her, his eyes revealing a pain so deep that Wendy secretly wished she could revoke her words.

She felt his hand lightly touch her arm before it fell away, as if ashamed by tainting such beatified sanctity. She returned his look of pain, secretly wishing that she could somehow erase it. She begged him to see her regret, understand that she had been wrong about him. But alas, he did not see it; as his thoughts were only of himself and the miserable fact that he could not have her.

And just as dejected was he in accepting this unwanted truth, his hand sought her face once more, timidly caressing the smooth planes of ivory with a consummate sorrow that left his captive spellbound and not wanting to leave.

"Leave, Wendy Darling," he uttered in a choked whisper, his hand opening the door that led to her freedom. "Return to the light and safety of your cabin before I do something that we both may come to regret."

Wendy nodded blankly, though wanting to express something that would inevitably lead to her complete submission. But she could not, her voice refusing to carry the words. And so it was that she departed, leaving the captain to stare after her with only regret in his eyes—a regret, that she had created by the solitary fear of her own naïveté.

…

Three hours had passed in the brightly-lit confines of Wendy's cabin. A myriad of candles had been lit, baptising the room with golden light. Fiery flickers, born of fire and air, danced about the cabin's walls, entrancing all, even their mistress, who sat amongst them, cold and alone, and with only her thoughts as company.

No one had come after her dire meeting with the captain, only the hurried scuffling of footsteps; and then the quick locking of her cabin door had been the only contact between another and she. Nevertheless, she sat in the safe confines of her room, thinking, considering everything.

She closed her eyes, her mind running rampant with wild imaginings. It was a nightmare, all of it. The ship and its strange crew, Smee's apparent madness, even the captain himself, whose taciturn nature could change on a whim, frightened her. The fading memories of the Neverland she remembered were not as the horrid nightmare with which she now dwelled. No, this Neverland was different, more alien and adult, and without the joyous comforts that often came with childhood innocence. And sadly, this long forgotten innocence was another thing that her captor had greedily taken from her.

Upon this consideration, she vaguely heard a clash of thunder before being cast, face-first, against the floor. She cried out, the ship's lurching causing an onslaught of valuable glass ornaments and trinkets to fall from their kept places. Only the furniture, which was mercifully bolted to the floor, remained secured. Wendy had little more than a moment to collect herself before another sounding wave collided against the ship.

Cautiously she pulled herself away from the floor, desperately clasping onto the headboard of her bed. She looked out of the gallery window, seeing a multitude of lightening strikes in the distance, the ship a primary target should one strike true. Her eyes widened, as a blinding white light penetrated the translucent glass panes. She turned away from it, realising that this was the barrier Smee had spoken of.

"Oh, dear God," she murmured in fear, worried, as another heady barrage of wind and rain assaulted the ship. She fought against the impending squall, struggling to hold her balance as another wave struck the _Jolly Roger_. However, this time, she cried out, the massive swell crashing against the dark room—all of the candles doused from the first impact—and thus shattered the safe confines of the cabin. The ominous sound of a deafening crack, followed by the splintering of sturdy ancient wood was all that the tragic storyteller needed to know about the fate of the ship, and undoubtedly the lives aboard it.

She did not hear the rushing flow of the torrent until a curtain of water broke through, almost wrenching her from the bolted bed. Wendy fought against it, her fragile figure struggling to remain upright. She turned her head away from the forthcoming spill, spitting out the briny taste of salt-water.

In silence, she prayed, pleading that the ship navigated through the enraged tempest. And just as she murmured these words of thoughtful prayer, the ship's endless rocking ceased, as the sea itself calmed momentarily, the detrimental tide receding into the heart of the storm.

Wendy's thankful expression darted toward the ceiling before she felt the ship's reeling motion once again. She frowned, holding firmly onto the waterlogged bed. This time, however, she did not cower against the rocking waves, as the inlet of cold water surged in. It was then she noticed that the door to her cabin had been opened, the entrance ruined beyond repair. She almost gasped, realising that the way to freedom was now open, her chance had come.

Timidly, she released the headboard and moved toward the cabin's threshold, not once considering the state of her wedding gown. She struggled against the ship's constant sway, but no less continued, her cumbersome gait now empowered by her need to escape. A weary smile dawned upon her pale features, the faded light within her eyes returning.

_Soon_, she thought, _soon I will be home and away from this unending nightmare with…him._

She frowned at the thought of the captain; but more for his need to hold the image of the voice she had once—and ever still—loved. She quickly dispelled it, trying to forget the way he had looked at her only hours before. With each purposeful step, she tried to forget him, though found herself unable, as the forlorn image of James Hook remained, steadfast, in the centre of her mind.

It was guilt, she reminded herself, only guilt and nothing more. But even as she thought this, she knew it not to be so. A deeply hidden part—a most forbidden part—of her refused to condemn him when she wished nothing more than to seek him out and enter the safety of his arms. She wanted this, more than anything, but willed herself against it; she could not accept him when she was bound to another. For even without the ring, she was still Henry's betrothed, not the captain's.

But yet, she again entertained a most dour notion; where she, Wendy Moira Angela Darling, was not engaged to a prestigious bank owner's son, but to one with qualities far less admirable—one who saw her as more than a mere cripple to be pitied. She faintly considered what her place would be as a pirate captain's bride as she ascended the steps to the quarter deck, her thoughts of escape momentarily forgotten.

Yet even with her dark contemplations adjourned, the constant battle between the _Jolly Roger_ and the elements did little to hinder her; her will was set, as her hands fell firmly against the ship's wood railing. She did not heed the cry of the wind, nor fall of the tempestuous wave, only her need to escape the ship and the dreaded feelings that her captor inspired. She looked to the storm-scattered heavens in askance, a tremulous moment of indecision passing before her mind was made.

Her hand tightened around the weathered railing, as she pulled herself forward, her unadorned feet almost slipping in her ascent. She stepped up then, blindly grasping for a rigging line, her numbed body unable to feel the cold, driving rain that fell unrepentantly from the sky. She closed her eyes and breathed, feeling the quick before the plunge.

The time had come, she realised, her only chance to free herself from his possessive hold. Upon this, her hand loosened from the rope, her dress swaying madly about her. But as she was ready to fall from grace, her mind heard a voice cry out: _Wendy!_ And then the imposing vision that was Captain James Hook appeared, his sodden figure calling out to her from the main deck.

She watched him pursue her, his noble gait forgotten amid the surrounding chaos. He ascended the steps that led to the upper deck, almost slipping before he reached its wooden summit and inevitably stood a stone's throw away from her, his black attire soaked and ruined.

But it did little to subdue the timidity welling within her, as the concern in his eyes compelled her to release the rigging and return to that wondrous safety found in his arms. She almost went, secretly wanting nothing more than to feel him about her, comforting her, and promising her the world if she so wished it.

And as this idyllic fantasy penetrated her aching mind, she saw him move forward, his ruddy lips devoid of movement.

_No, Wendy! _his mind cried, his eyes pleading to her, begging her as he took another cautious step, his next words drawing more profoundly into her thoughts: _Please, Wendy, stay with me. I could not bear it if you left._

A tear fell from her eye at these words, wanting desperately to believe him. But she could not. As much as she wished it so, she could not stay with him—not when she was promised to another…

She drew herself against the railing and looked at him. Nothing was said as only the captain's silent plea echoed any thought the other had. Wendy watched him, his hand reaching out for hers, that one artless act breaching an ever-gaping void between them.

Wendy smiled faintly; and without thought, her free hand sought his, their fingers touching briefly before she drew them away. She shook her head—her face full of a regretful sorrow that no living mortal could ever know—as she whispered, "Good-bye," to him and let go of the railing, her white dress descending like silken angel's wings before disappearing into the darkened waters below.

Hook stood in silence, eyes gaping emptily. He looked frantically about the water, seeing nought but the churning black waves beneath. Great tremors of an emotion, unknown, overwhelmed him as a raging madness plagued his mind, forcing him to cry out to the heavens—an earth-shattering sound that no human could dare emulate.

"Mr. Smee!" he barked, meeting his bo'sun halfway down the stairs, a rope now in hand.

Smee looked at its massive length, and then to his master. "What—"

"Miss Darling has fallen overboard," came Hook's terse reply as he handed a rope's end to his subordinate. "Have some of the crew join you at the side and pull when I call out to you," he firmly commanded, and glared at the man out of the corner of his eye. "Do not fail me in this, Smee; I will not have her die this night."

The boatswain paled and nodded dumbly, for he knew well what would come should he fail.

The captain inclined his head, taking the other end and tying it around him before joining himself to the void that had claimed his reluctant storyteller. Smee said nothing in the wake of his master's words, only called out to those who heard him above the wailing squall that had besieged their beloved ship, and leaving his master to do the rest.

And Hook did, as he plunged into the ever-darkening abyss, his eyes cutting through the impenetrable depths of night. He swum deeper, faster, his breath with him even as he descended into the oceanic bowels that now imprisoned Wendy. He mentally cursed, regretting that his boots prevented faster movement, the claw utterly useless in his purposeful descent.

Nevertheless, he continued his decline into madness, a white shred of silk in sight. He dove toward it, his hand reaching out past the black strands of midnight before grasping a frail waistline. His eyes instantly fell upon Wendy's lifeless face, a sure sign of death. Pockets of precious air almost escaped him, but he held them close, pulling her inert form against his and breathing into her. He abruptly made use of the rope, tying it around her waist, and then called out a soundless cry.

Not a moment passed before the rope tugged and Hook rose with her until both struck the surface, alive.

"There they be!" Hook heard Smee's ragged voice call out. "Hurry, lads, we must get 'em aboard, now!"

As the boatswain commanded this, half of the crew tugged at the rope, careful not to harm their mistress. Hook soon followed, falling next to Wendy's unmoving form. He lay with her on the deck for only a moment until his senses returned to him. She was not breathing.

He cursed violently, his claw falling against her constraining gown. And like the parting of the great sea, so too, did her dress tear, the hook awkwardly slitting through the thickly sewn bodice and underlying corset. He was then atop her, placing his mouth firmly against hers. Both hand and hook worked as one, expelling the seawater from her lungs. He worked tirelessly, his men watching helplessly. He paid no heed to them, however, his thoughts solely upon Wendy.

Again, he exorcised the seawater, alleviating her burning lungs, as he breathed the breath of life into them once more. Relief soon overcame him when he saw Wendy cough out the deadly liquid, breathing entirely on her own. He whispered soothing words of comfort to her before turning toward a very pale Alasdair Vane.

"Send for Crane!" he demanded, feeling for a slight pulse in a weakened vein.

The Scottish lord only nodded, not noticing his captain rise and take the lifeless Wendy in those commanding arms, as he himself sought out the ever-irritable doctor.

With Wendy safely secured, Hook carried her across the deck, ignoring the awe-stricken stares of his crew. Their visages of astonishment no longer mattered, only the girl whom he held so preciously in his arms. He held her closely, protectively, until gently placing her upon his bed. He looked at her, unaware that his loyal boatswain had followed him.

"Will she be a'right, sir?" Smee asked worriedly, his spectacled eyes watching his master cover his pale mistress with a thick coverlet.

Hook nodded quietly. "She will not leave me this night. I have made certain of it," he replied enigmatically, placing a cold hand against her face.

"Aye, sir," Smee agreed weakly, despairing in Hook's own state; the man was soaked completely through, "she'll survive this. Ain't one of us aboard who could've done a better job than ye, Master James." He clapped his superior's shoulder in comfort. "'Tis good that ye 'ave that power of yers. She'd been lost ta us if ye didn't."

The captain stared lifelessly at Wendy, and remarked quietly, "You may go, Mr. Smee."

Smee sighed, ready to obey. But his worried expression lifted when he saw Joshua Crane enter, a medicine bag in hand.

"Pardon me, Mr. Smee," the young doctor calmly acknowledged, moving to Hook's side. "Is she breathing on her own?" he asked the indolent captain.

"Faintly," replied a toneless Hook, his hand still caressing her face. "But she _will_ live," he intoned with secret meaning.

Crane cocked his head to the side, and a dark brow raised in question. "Of course," he allowed, his doctor's tone hollow and giving nothing away. He quickly opened the bag and withdrew several small instruments, placing them carefully in a row on the bed. He looked at the captain, and then to Smee. "I will need to examine her, alone."

"Smee, leave us; I shall remain here," Hook grated out, his civil tone a dire warning.

The doctor quietly flinched, but Smee intervened. "Come now, Master James," he cajoled, "I'd agree wit' ye wholeheartedly on anythin' ta contradict the good doctor 'ere. But in this, he is right. It's not fittin' fer ye ta be in 'ere. Ye know this."

The captain frowned disdainfully. "Nevertheless, I _will_ stay," he returned gravely. "I will not abandon her, as others have."

Smee was unhindered by this cold affirmation, as he once again denied his captain. "The lass will be quite upset wit' ye if ye do. T'would hurt her if she knew. Do ye want ta do that ta the little miss? Think about what the mistress would say if _she_ knew," he questioned, drawing onto an entirely different cord of persuasion. He moved forward, his grey eyes plaintive, beseeching. "It ain't proper an' ye know this. Miss Wendy would respect ye more if ye left now. An' ye want that. Ye want her love, don't ye, boy?"

A yielding sigh escaped the captain, and he weakly nodded. "Yes," he quietly whispered, and rose from his seat. He turned to the silent doctor, giving him a condescending glare. "You will do your job and nothing more. Am I understood?"

Crane suppressed a hidden smile. "Of course, sir. I shall inform you of her condition after my examination."

Hook only snorted in response, the self-assured Smee following deftly behind until the door to the cabin was closed. He dismissed the grinning bo'sun without a second thought, desiring a moment's peace. The ancient seaman left him then, saying nought as the grin remained, undisturbed by his master's present ire.

Mindlessly Hook ignored his subordinate, though strangely commended him in the same breathless thought, as no other could manage such a feat by ordering his captain about. It was simply not done, especially on a ship—a _pirate_ ship, of all things. Even so, the captain in him found the crazed man's words ring eerily true. He did not wish to admit it, but he _wanted_ to remain with Wendy, regardless of any lingering propriety that still existed on his ship.

He wanted to stay with her, no matter her state of undress. Indeed, he could well imagine the wealth of beauty the doctor was examining now. He inwardly cursed himself, promising the mousy naturalist a slow, painful, agonising death should his examination go beyond that of a physician's interest. No one touched _his_ Wendy, not even he, as he had already learned that painful lesson…

But yet, she remained ever his, his thoughts argued, and would always be.

A look of relief overcame his furrowed brow, his _alabaster_ countenance gleaming radiantly in the starlight. He shook his head, quietly admiring their beauty. He had made it through the tempest and came out the victor, with Wendy as the promised prize. He glanced once more towards his cabin door, his thoughts whispering comforting words into her mind, promising her the whole of the Neverland and so much more.

For now it was that Wendy was inexorably bound to him, their link unbreakable. He allowed a steady breath—filled with both fear and deep anticipation—to escape him, as he knew that she was far from recovery. But he willed her to live, giving her the breath of his own life. And she _would_ live—through him—her fate now tied to his.

_Thou art mine forever, _ma belle, his thoughts gently whispered, _as thou shalt forever be._ He smiled then, a most terrible smile; for as he thought upon this irreversible deed, he watched the door, grimly awaiting the doctor's verdict on his Wendy's fate.

…

**Author's Note: I find that I must first apologise in advance for taking so long; I fear have been much engaged in my studies of late. The past two terms have been a complete nightmare—especially now, since I am currently taking nineteen hours—the maximum for a senior. But regardless of the work and headache, my classes have a true pleasure indeed. 'Tis strange to even admit it, but I have learned much, and have thus enjoyed every moment. Also, too, sorry for any grammatical errors; after the third reading, I found that I simply wanted to post it. I may revise it later.**

**Anyway, I do hope everyone liked the chapter. I will even confess to it being one of my favourites, thus far. What with all of the drama, passion, and a near-suicide—how could I not have pleasure in writing it? Be rest assured, though, there is still _more_ to come, as undoubtedly the captain has much to say when Wendy awakes. I shall give nothing away! (Grins.)**

**My thanks, once again, to everyone who is reading. Your comments and reviews are much appreciated! Thanks again!**


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